UC-NRLF 


Education  Library 


3 


ci_jct**j&*-~ 

NATIONAL  READER; 

A 

» 

SELECTION  OF  EXERCISES 

/ 

IN 

READING    AND    SPEAKING, 

DESIGNED 

TO  FILL  THE   SAME   PLACE 

IN    THE    . 

SCHOOLS  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES, 

THAT    IS    HELD    IN 

THOSE  OF  GREAT  BRITAIN 

BY    THE    COMPILATIONS    OF 
*        V    ' 

MURRAY,  SCOTT,  ENFIELD,  MYLIUS,  THOMPSON, 
EWING,  AND  OTHERS. 


BY   JOHN  PIERPONT, 

COMPILER   OF    THE  'AMERICAN    FIRST    CLASS-BOOK,    THE 

INTRODUCTION    TO    THE    NATIONAL    READER, 

AND    THE    YOUNG    READER. 


BOf 

PUBLISHED  BY 


ANA/Mj, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1835,  by 

JOHN  PIERPONT, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


Extract  from  the  Records  of  the  School- Committee  of  Boston. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  School-Committee  of  the  City  of  Boston,  holden  at 
the  Mayor  and  Aldermen's  Room,  July  2d,  1829, — Voted,  That  "Pierpout's 
NATIONAL  READER"  be  introduced  into  the  public  grammar  schools  of 
this  city,  in  lieu  of  "  Murray's  English  Reader,"  after  the  visitation  of  the 
Schools  in  August. 


f 

Wl .  fl 


631 


. 

PREFACE. 


THE  favour  shown  by  the  public  to  the  P  American  First  Class- 
has  encouraged  me  to  proceed  to  the  executitm  of  a  purpose,  that  I  formed 
while  preparing  that  book  for  the  press — the  compilation  of  a  Reader,  for 
the  Common  Schools  of  the  United  States,  which  should  be, — \vhat  no  school- 
book  compiled  in  Great  Britain  is, — in  some  degree  at  least,  American. 

It  cannot,  indeed,  be  urged  as  an  objection  to  a  British  school-book,  that 
it  is  not  adapted  to  American  schools ;  that  it  consists  exclusively  of  the 
productions  of  British  authors ;  that  it  abounds  in  delineations  of  British 
manners, — in  descriptions  of  British  scenery, — in  eulogies  of  British  heroes 
and  statesmen, — in  selections  from  British  history,  —and  in  pieces,  of  winch 
it  is  the  direct  aim  to  impress  the  mind  of  the  reader  with  a  deep  sense  of 
the  excellence  of  British  institutions,  and  of  the  power  and  glory  of  the 
British  empire.  A  book  of  this  character  is  moving  in  its  proper  sphere, 
and  accomplishing  the  purpose  of  its  author,  when  it  is  passing  from  hand 
to  hand,  among  the  children  of  Great  Britain,  introducing  them  to  an  ac- 
quaintance with  their  native  land,  and  with  those  who  have  adorned  it  by 
their  genius  or  their  virtues,  and  thus  exciting  within  them  a  love  of  their 
country,  and  a  resolution  to  become  its  ornaments  in  their  turn.  That  efiect 
produced  by  the  book,  its  author  has  gained  his  object,  and  has  established 
his  character,  and  secured  his  reward,  as  a  benefactor  of  his  country  in  one 
of  its  most  valuable  interests :  and  it  derogates  nothing  from  his  merit  or 
fame,  to  say  that  his  book  is  not  well  adapted  to  those  for  whose  use  he  did 
not  intend  it ;  for  this  is  but  saying  that  he  has  not  done  what  he  has  not 
attempted  to  do.  It  is  no  disparagement  to  English  laws,  to  say  that  they 
will  not  do  for  us.  They  were  not  made  for  us.  Nor  is  it  a  disparagement 
to  English  school-books,  to  say  that  they  are  not  adapted  to  American 
schools.  There  is  not  one,  among  them  all,  that  was  designed  for  Ameri- 
can schools.  To  the  compiler  of  an  American  School -Reader,  it  would,  no 
doubt,  be  flattering,  to  know  that  his  book  had  found  such  'favour  in  Eng- 
land, as  to  be  introduced  extensively  into  common  schools  there.  But, 
though  this  might  be  a  little  flattering  to  him,  it  would,  probably,  seem  to 
him  not  a  little  strange,  that  they  had  not  books  of  their  own  in  England, 
better  fitted  to  the  schools,  under  a  monarchical  form  of  government,  than 
the  compilation  of  a  republican  foreigner,  which  was  never  intended  for 
them.  And  would  it  be  to  the  honour  of  English  literature,  or  of  those  men 
in  England,  who  feel  an  interest  in  the  prosperity  of  the  state, — and,  con- 
sequently, an  interest  in  seeing  the  young  so  educated,  that  they  may  worthi- 
ly fill  its  places  of  honour  and  trust, — to  admit,  by  the  general  introduction 
of  foreign  compilations  into  their  schools,  that  there  is  no  man  in  England 
able  to  make  a  good  school-book,  and,  at  the  same  time,  willing  to  submit 
to  the  labour  of  making  one  ? 

This  country  has  political  institutions  of  its  own; — institutions  which  the 
men  of  each  successive  generation  must  uphold.  But  this  they  cannot  do, 
unless  they  are  early  made  to  understand  and  value  them.  It  has  a  history 
of  its  own,  of  which  it  need  not  be  ashamed ; — fathers,  and  heroes,  and 
sages,  of  its  own  whose  deeds  and  praises  are  worthy  of  being  "said  or 

M289998 


17  PREFACE. 

sung"  by  even  the  "mighty  masters  of  the  lay,"— and  with  whose  deeds  and 
praises,  by  being  made  familiar  in  our  childhood,  we  shall  be  not  the  less 
qualified  to  act  well  our  part,  as  citizens  of  a  republic.  Our  country,  both 
physically  and  morally,  has  a  character  of  its  own.  Should  not  something 
of  that  character  be  learned  by  its  children  while  at  school  1  Its  mountains, 
and  prairies,  and  lakes,  and  rivers,  and  cataracts, — its  shores  and  hill-tops, 
that  were  early  made  sacred  by  the  dangers,  and  sacrifices,  and  deaths,  of 
the  devout  and  the  daring — it  does  seem  as  if  these  were  worthy  of  being 
held  up,  as  objects  of  interest,  to  the  young  eyes  that,  from  year  to  year, 
are  opening  upon  them,  and  worthy  of  being  linked,  with  all  their  sacred 
associations,  to  the  young  affections,  which,  sooner  or  later,  must  be  bound 
to  them,  or  they  must  cease  to  be — what  they  now  are — the  inheritance  and 
abode  of  a  free  people. 

It  has  been  my  object  to  make  this  book — what  it  is  called — a  National 
Reader.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  that  it  consists,  entirely,  of  American  pro- 
ductions, or  that  the  subjects  of  the  different  lessons  are  exclusively  Ameri- 
can. I  do  not  underctand  that  a  national  spirit  is  an  exclusive  spirit.  The 
language  of  pure  moral  sentiment,  the  out-pourings  of  a  poetical  spirit,  the 
lessons  of  genuine  patriotism,  and  of  a  sublime  and  catholic  religion, — let 
them  have  proceeded  from  what  source  they  may, — not  a  few  pieces,  espe- 
cially, which  have  long  held  a  place  in  English  compilations, — I  have 
adopted  freely  into  this  collection,  and  believe  that  I  have  enriched  it  by 
them.  I  trust  that  there  will  be  found  in  it  not  a  line  or  a  thought,  that 
shall  offend  the  most  scrupulous  delicacy,  or  that  shall  give  any  parent 
occasion  to  tremble  for  the  morals  of  either  a  son  or  a  daughter ;  and  I  hope 
that  a  regard  for  my  own  interest,  if  no  higher  consideration,  may  have 
prevented  my  being  unmindful  of  that  section  of  the  late  law  of  this  com- 
monwealth, which  provides,  that  no  committee  of  a  public  school  shall  ever 
"  direct  any  school-books  to  be  purchased,  or  used  in  any  of  the  schools 
under  their  superintendence,  which  are  calculated  to  favour  any  particular 
religiovs  sect  or  tenet." 

In  regard  to  rules  or  directions  for  reading,  the  same  considerations  which 
prevented  my  filling  up  any  part  of  the  "  American  first  Class-Book"  with 
them,  have  induced  me  to  introduce  none  of  them  into  this  collection  of 
exercises.  Three  things  only  are  required  to  make  a  good  reader.  He 
must  read  so  that  what  he  reads  shall,  in  the  first  place,  be  heard;  in  the 
second,  that  it  shall  be  understood ;  and,  in  the  third,  that  it  shall  be  felt. 
If  a  boy  has  voice,  and  intelligence,  and  taste  enough  to  do  all  this,  then, 
under  the  personal  guidance  and  discipline  of  a  teacher  who  can  read  well, 
he  will  learn  to  read  well ;  but  if  he  has  not,  he  may  study  rules,  and  pore 
over  the  doctrine  of  cadences  and  inflections,  till  "chaos  come  again," — 
lie  will  never  be  a  good  reader. 

In  the  humble  hope  that  this  compilation  may  contribute  something  to 
the  accomplishing  of  the  young,  in  this  country,  in  the  art  of  reading  and 
speaking  well, — something  to  the  improvement  of  their  taste,  the  cultiva- 
tion of  their  moral  sense  and  religious  affections,  and,  thus,  something  to 
their  preparation  for  an  honourable  discharge  of  their  duties  in  this  life,  and 
for  "glory,  honour,  and  immortality/'  in  the  life  that  is  to  come, — I  submit 
it  to  the  disposal  of  the  public,  and  ask  for  it  only  the  favour  of  which  it 
may  be  thought  worthy. 

Boston.  June  1827.  J.  P. 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


LESSONS  IN  PROSE. 


The  names  of  American  authors  are  in  small  capitals. 
Lesson-  Pag«. 

1 .  Discovery  of  America,  abridged  from Robertson.  9 

2.  A  good  Scholar May.  14 

3.  The  good  Schoolmaster Fuller.  16 

4.  Attention  and  Industry  rewarded Berquin.  18 

5.  On  Lying Chesterfield.  20 

6.  Portrait  of  a  Patriarch,  selected  from  Job,  by Addison.  21 

7.  An  uncharitable  Spirit  rebuked A  Rabbinical  Tale.  22 

1 1 .  Religious  Contemplation  of  the  Works  of  God Moodie.  26 

12.  Criminality  of  Intemperance H.  WARE,  Jr.  27 

13.  The  Worm J.  RUSSELL.  29 

14.  Debt  and  Credit TRENTON  EMPORIUM.  31 

15.  The  Indians  of  North  America  .  .CINCINNATI  NAT.  REPUBLICAN.  33 

16.  Story  and  Speech  of  Logan JEFFERSON.  35 

20.  Grandeur  and  Interest  of  American  Antiquities T.  FLINT.  43 

22.  The  American  Indian,  as  he  was,  and  as  ne  is   .   .   .   C.  SPRAGUE.     47 

23.  The  Grave  a  Place  of  Rest Mackenzie.     49 

28.  Obedience  to  the  Commands  of  God  rewarded Moodie.     56 

29.  Promises  of  Religion  to  the  Young Alison.     57 

30.  On  the  Swiftness  of  Time Johnson.     58 

33.  Obidah. — the  Journey  of  a  Day Id.     62 

34.  The  Vision  of  Mirza  . Addison.     66 

37.  The  Widow  and  her  Son C.  Edwards.  72 

38.  The  Little  Man  in  Black W.  IRVING.  75 

93.  The  same,  concluded IBID.  78 

40.  Danger  of  being  a  good  Singer    .    .   .    .  London  Literary  Chronicle.  82 

45.  The  Voice  of  the  Seasons Alison.     90 

46.  Anecdote  of  Richard  Jackson     ....  London  Quarterly  Review.     91 

47.  Description  of  Niagara  Falls Hoicison.     92 

49.  Cataract  of  Tend ANONYMOUS.  98 

50.  A  West -Indian  Landscape Malte-Brun.  101 

51.  Devotional  Influences  of  Natural  Scenery  .  Blackwood's  Ed.  Mag.  102 
62.  Passage  of  the  Shenandoah  through  the  Blue  Ridge   .  JEFFERSON.  105 

58.  The  Funeral  of  Maria Mackenzie.  Ill 

59.  A  Leaf  from  "  The  Life  of  a  Looking-Glass"  .   .    Miss  J.  Taylor.  113 

64.  Industry  necessary  to  Genius V.  Knox.  121 

65.  Story  ol Matilda Goldsmith.  123 

67.  Early  Recollections New  Monthly  Magazine.  126 

72.  Cruelty  to  Animals  reproved Manor.  135 

73.  Excessive  Severity  in  Punishments  censured    .   .       .   .  Goldsmith.  137 

77.  Religion  the  Basis  of  Society CHANNING.  142 

78.  Punishment  of  a  Liar ,   .  Bible.  143 

1* 


Ti  CONTENTS. 

Lesson.  Paga 

79.  Claims  of  the  Jews Noel.  145 

80.  Happiness  of  Devotional  Habits  and  Feelings  .   .   .    Wcllbeloved.  147 

86.  Folly  of  deferring  Religious  Duties Ibid.  156 

87.  Religion  the  best  Preparation  for  Duty  in  Life NORTON.  158 

88.  The  Young  of  every  Rank  entitled  to  Education  .   .GREENWOOD.  160 

93.  The  Bells  of  St.  Mary's,  Limerick  .    .   .  London  Literary  Gazette.  163 

94.  Jerusalem  and  the  surrounding  Country 

Letters  from  the  East,  Banks.  172 

95.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  176 

98.  Mount  Sirai Ibid.  180 

100.  Religious  Education  necessary GREENWOOD.  185 

101.  Importance  of  Science  to  a  Mechanic G.  B?  EMERSON.  188 

102.  Story  of  Rabbi  Akiba From  Hurwitz's  Hebrew  Tales.  190 

107.  First  Settlement  of  the  Pilgrims  in  New  England,  abridged 

and  compiled  from Robertson  and  Neal.  196 

108.  Extract. from  an  Oration  delivered  at  Plymouth    .   .  E.  EVERETT.  200 

109.  Extract  from  the  same IBID.  201 

110.  Claims  of  the  Pilgrims  to  the  Gratitude  and  Reverence  of 

their  Descendants O.  DEWEY.  205 

114.  Character  of  the  Puritan  Fathers GREENWOOD.  213 

115.  The  same,  concluded IBID.  216 

116.  Extract  from  a  Speech  on  the  American  Colonies  .  Lord.  Chatham.  219 

117.  Extract  from  a  Speech  on  British  Aggressions  .  PATRICK  HENRY.  221 

118.  Account  of  the  Battles  of  Lexington  and  Concord Botta.  223 

119.  The  same,  concluded Ibid.  227 

120.  Extract  from  an  Oration  delivered  at  Concord  .   .   .  E.  EVERETT.  229 

127.  Account  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill Botta.  242 

128.  The  same,  concluded • Ibid.  246 

130.  Extract  from  an  Address  on  Bunker's  Hill .   .   .   .  D.  WEBSTER.  250 

131.  Extract  from  the  same *.   .   .   .  IBID.  252 

134.  Extract  from  a  Speech  on  Dinas  Island. Phillips.  257 

135.  Nature  of  True  Eloquence.     Extract  from  a  Discourse  in 

commemoration  of  Adams  and  Jefferson  .   .   .  D.  WEBSTER.  260 

136.  Extract  from  the  same  Discourse IBID.  261 

137.  Extract  from  the  same IBID.  2G3 


LESSONS    IN   POETRY. 

8.  Paraphrase  of  the  Nineteenth  Psalm Addison.  23 

9.  Morning  Meditations Hawkesworth.  24 

10.  Nature's  Music " Anonypious.  25 

17.  Geehale.     An  Indian  Lament NEW- YORK  STATESMAN.  36 

IS.  Fall  of  Tecumseh .   ...  ID.  3* 

19.  Monument  Mountain BRYANT.  3< 

21.  Mounds  on  the  Western  Rivers M.FLINT.  46 

24.  On  planting  Flowers  on  the  Graves  of  Friends  .    Blackwood's  Mag.  51 

25.  Thoughts  in  Prospect  of  Death Henry  K.  White.  52 

26.  The  Grave Bernard  Barton.  53 

27.  The  Fall  of  the  Leaf.   .......  Milonov,  translated  by  Bowring.  54 

31.  Lines  on  returning  to  one's  Native  Country Anonymous.  60 

32.  "  He  shall  fly  away  as  a  Dream"      Ancn.  62 

35.  The  World  we  have  not  seen Anon.  70 


CONTENTS.  vu 

Lesson.  Pag«- 

36.  The  Better  Land Mrs.  Hemans.  71 

41.  The  Country  Clergyman Goldsmith.  84 

42.  Parody  on  "  The  Country  Clergyman"  .   .  Blackwood's  Ed.  Mag:  86 

43.  Elegy'on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize Goldsmith.  88 

44.  The  Sick  Man  and  the  Angel .  Gay.  89 

48.  Niagara  Falls,— from  the  Spanish T.  T.  PAYNE.  96 

53.  The  Blind  Boy Bloomfeld.  106 

54.  A  Thought  on  Death Mrs.  Barbauld.  107 

65.  The  Old  Man's  Funeral BRYANT.  107 

56.  Sunday  Evening Bowring.  109 

57.  The  Star  of  Bethlehem J.  G.  PERCIVAL.  110 

60.  The  silent  Expression  of  Nature Anonymous.  117 

61.  A  Thought Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine.  118 

62.  Fidelity Wordsworth.  119 

63.  Solitude Henri/  K.  White.  121 

66.  The  Man  of  Ross Pope.  125 

68.  On  visiting  a  Scene  of  Childhood  .    .  BlacJcwood's  Ed.  Magazine.  129 

69.  The  little  Graves Anonymous.  131 

70.  Life  and  Death New  Monthly  Magazine.  133 

71.  The  Burial  of  Arnold „ WILLIS.  134 

74.  Address  to  Liberty Cowper.  138 

75.  The  Hermit -  * Beattie.  139 

76.  Hymn  to  the  Stars Monthly  Repository.  1  U 

81.  The  Seasons Mrs.  Barbauld.  1  y 

82.  March BRYANT.  151 

S3.  April LONGFELLOW.  152 

84.  May J.  G.  PERCIVAL.  153 

85.  The  Voice  of  Spring Mrs.  Hemans.  153 

89.  Childhood  and  Manhood.     An  Apologue Cr&bbe.  162 

90.  The  Skies BRYANT.  164 

91.  Address  to  the  Stars" New  Monthly  Magazine.  165 

92.  Song  of  the  Stars .   .BRYANT.  166 

96.  "Tliat  ve,  through  his  poverty,  might  be  rich  3  ...     W.  Russell.  178 

97.  Elijah  led  by  B.a vens Grahame.  179 

99.  The  Summit  of  Mount  Sinai Montgomery.  184 

103.  Alice  Fe-11 Wordsicorth.   191 

104.  The  jEolian  Harp European  Magazine.  193 

105.  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe.  194 

106.  War  unnatural  and  unchristian MELLEN.  195 

111.  Song  of  the  Pilgrims   .   .    , T.  C.  UPHAM.  210 

112.  Landing-  of  the  Pilgrims Mrs.  Hemans.  211 

113.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers PIERPONT.  212 

121.  Elegy,  in  a  flue  '  v\/yKurchyard Gray.  231 

122.  The  Grave  o>T1]n  :    f^j  .    .    ." Mrs.  Hemans.  235 

123.  God's  First  Temples      ,"  *     ~n    ....       BRYANT.  236 

124.  Hymn  of  Nature  .    J   ™Q   us' PEABODY.  239 

125.  Lines  on  revisiting  the  Country BRYANT.  241 

126.  Lines  on  a  Beehive Monthly  Repository.  242 

129.  Warren's  Address  before  the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill   .  PIERPONT.  250 

132.  Hymn,  commemorative  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill   .    .   .   .  ID.  254 

133.  "What's  hallowed  Ground ?" Campbell.  255 

138.  The  School-Boy Amulet.  266 

139.  Stanzas  addressed  to  the  Greeks Anonymous.  267 

140.  Spanish  Patriot's  Song  ....  Anon.  268 

141.  The  Three  Warnings Mrs.  Thralc.  269 

142.  The  Mariner's  Dream Dimond.  272 

143.  Absalom .  WILLIS.  274 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS. 


The  names  of  jSmerican  authors  are  in  Italic. 


Lessons. 

Addison 6,8,34. 

Alison 29, 45. 

Amulet 138. 

Anonymous   .   .  10,  31,  32,  35,  49,  60, 
69,  139,  140. 

Banks 94,  95,  98. 

Barbauld,  Mrs.  L 54,81. 

Barton,  Bernard 26. 

Beattie      75. 

Berquin 4. 

Bible 6,  78. 

Bloomfield 53. 

Botta 118,119,127,128. 

Bowring 27,  56. 

Bryant.    .   19,55,82,90,92,123,125. 

Campbell 133. 

Channinfr,  W.  E 77. 

Chatham,  Lord,— W.  Pitt  .   .   .   116. 

Chesterfield 5. 

Chronicle,  London  Literary  .   .  .  40. 

Cowper 74. 

Crabbe 89. 

Dewey,  Orville 110. 

Dimohd 142. 

Edwards,  Charles 37. 

Emerson,  G.  B 101. 


Letsoni. 

Knox,  Vicesimus 64 

Longfellow,  II.  W. 83. 

Mackenzie 23,  58. 

Magazine,  New  Monthly      67, 70, 91. 

,  Blackwood's  Edin.  .   .  24, 

42,51,61,68. 

,  European 104. 

Malte-Brun 60. 

Mavor 72. 

May 


Mdlen 106. 

Milonov,  translated  by  Bowring  .    27. 

Montgomery 99. 

Moodie 11,28. 

Neal  and  Robertson  (abridged)  .  107. 

Noel 79. 

Norton,  A 87. 

Payne,  T.  T. 48. 

Peabody,  W.O.B 124. 

Perdval,  J.  G 57,  84. 

Phillips 134. 

Pierpont,J. 113,129,132. 

Pope 66. 

Rabbinical  Tales 7,  102. 


Repository,  Monthly  . 


76, 126. 


,  and  Neal  (abridged)  .  107. 

Russell.  John 13. 

96. 

!  r 


Emporium,  (Trenton) 14.    Republican,  Nat.  (Cincinnati)  .   .15. 

Everett,  Edward  .   .    .    108,  109, 120.  j  Review,  London  Quarterly    .   .   .46. 

Robertson,  (abridged) 1, 

Flint,  T. 20. 

,M. 21. 

Fuller 3. 

Gay     44. 

Gazette,  London  Literary  ....  93. 

Goldsmith 41,43,65,73. 

Grahame 97. 

Gray 121. 

Greenwood,  F.  W.P.  83,100,114,115. 

Hawkesworth 9. 

Hemans,  Mrs.  F.  .    .  36,  85, 112, 122. 

Henry,  Patrick 117. 

Howison 47. 


Irving,  Washington 


.'.   38,39. 


Jefferson,  Thomas  ......  16,52. 

Jolmson,  Dr.  Samuel    .   .   ,      30,  33. 


"Charles     22. 

Statesman,  New-  York  .    .    .    .  17, 18. 

Taylor,  Miss  Jane 59, 

Thrale,  Mrs 141 

Upham,T.C 111. 

Ware,H.  Jr 12. 

Webster,  D.    .  130, 131,  135, 136,  137. 
Wellbeloved    ........  80, 86. 

White,  Henry  K 25.63. 

Willis 71,  143. 

Wolfe,  Charles 105 

Wordsworth 62,  103. 


NATIONAL  READER, 


LESSON  I. 

Discovery  of  America. — Abridged  from  ROBERTSON. 

ON  Friday,  the  third  day  of  August,  in  the  year  one  thou- 
sand four  hundred  and  ninety-two,  Columbus  set  sail  from 
Palos,  in  Spain,  a  little  before  sunrise,  in  presence  of  a  vast 
crowd  of  spectators,  who  sent  up  their  supplications  to  Hea- 
ven for  the  prosperous  issue  of  the  voyage ;  which  they 
wished,  rather  than  expected. 

His  squadron,  if  it  merit  that  name,  consisted  of  no  more 
than  three  small  vessels, — the  Santa  Maria,  the  Pinta,  and 
the  Nigna, — having  on  board  ninety  men,  mostly  sailors, 
together  with  a  few  adventurers,  who  followed  the  fortune 
of  Columbus,  and  some  gentlemen  of  the  Spanish  court, 
whom  the  queen  appointed  to  accompany  him. 

He  steered  directly  for  the  Canary  Islands ;  from  which, 
after  refitting  his  ships,-  and  supplying  himself  with  fresh 
provisions,  he  took  his  departure  on  the  sixth  day  of  Sep- 
tember. Here  the  voyage  of  discovery  may  properly  be 
said  to  have  begun ;  for  Colurnbus,  holding  his  course  due 
west,  left  immediately  the  usual  track  of  navigation,  and 
stretched  into  unfrequent'ed  and  unknown  seas. 

The  first  day,  as  it  was  very  cairn,  he  made  but  little 
way ;  but,  on  the  second,  he  lost  sight  of  the  Canaries ;  and 
many  of  the  sailors,  already  dejected  and  dismayed,  when 
they  contemplated  the  boldness  of  the  undertaking,  began  to 
beat  their  breasts,  and  to  shed  tears,  as  if  they  were  never 
more  to  behold  land.  Columbus  comforted  them  with  as- 
surances of  success,  and  the  prospect  of  vast  wealth  in  those 
opulent  regions,  whither  he  was  conducting  them.  * 

This  early  discovery  of  the  spirit  of  his  followers  taught 
Columbus  that  he  must  prepare  to  struggle,  not  only  with 


10  NATIONAL  READER, 

the  unavoidable  difficulties  which  might  be  expected  from 
the  nature  of  his  undertaking,  but  with  such  as  were  likely 
to  arise  from  the  ignorance  and  timidity  of  the  people  under 
his  command  ;  and  he  perceived,  that  the  art  of  governing 
the  mindr,  of  men  would  be  no  less  requisite  for  accomplish- 
ing the  discoveries,  which  he  had  in  view,  than  naval  skill 
und  an  enterprising  courage.  N| 

Happily  for  himself,  and  fo^  the  country  by  which  he  was 
employed,  he  joined  to  the  ardent  temper  and  inventive 
genius  of  a  projector,  virtues  of  another  species,  which  are 
rarely  united  with  them.  He  possessed  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of -mankind,  an  insinuating  address,  a  patient  perse- 
verance in  executing  any  plan,  the  perfect  government  of 
his  own  passions,  and  the  talent  of  acquiring  the  direction 
of  those  of  other  men. 

All  these  qualities,  which  formed  him  for  command,  were 
accompanied  \vith  that  superior  knowledge  of  his  profession 
which  begets  confidence,  in  times  of  difficulty  and  danger. 
To  unskilful  Spanish  sailors,  accustomed  only  to  coasting 
voyages  in  the  Mediterranean,  the  maritime  science  of 
Columbus,  the  fruit  of  thirty  years'  experience,  appeared 
immense.  As  soon  as  they  put  to  sea,  he  regulated  every 
thing  by  his  sole  authority;  he  superintended  the  execution 
of  every  order,  and,  allowing  himself  only  a  few  hours  foi 
sleep,  he  was,  at  all  other  times,  upon  deck. 

As  his  course  lay  through  seas  which  had  not  been  visit- 
ed before,  the  sounding  line,  or  instruments  for  observation, 
were  continually  in  his  hands.  He  attended  to  the  motion 
of  the  tides  and  currents,  watched  the  flight  of  birds,  the 
appearance  of  fishes,  of  sea-weeds,  and  of  every  thing  that 
floated  on  the  waves,  and  accurately  noted  every  occurrence 
in  a  journal  that  he  kept. 

By  the  fourteenth  day  of  September,  the  fleet  was  above 
two  hundred  leagues  to  the  west  of  the  Canary  Isles,  a 
greater  distance  from  land  than  any  Spaniard  had  ever  been 
before  that  time.  Here  the  sailors  were  struck  with  an 
appearance  no  less  astonishing  than  new.  They  observed 
that  the  magnetic  needle,  in  their  compasses,  did  not  point 
exactly  to  the  north  star,  but  varied  towards  the  west. 

This  appearance,  which  is  now  familiar,  filled  the  com- 
panions of  Columbus  with  terror.  They  were  in  an  ocean 
boundless  and  unknown,  nature  itself  seemed  to  be  altered, 
and  the  only  guide,  which  they  had  left,  was  about  to  fail 
them.  Columbus,  with  no  less  quickness  than  ingenuity, 


NATIONAL  READER.  11 

invented  a  reason  for  this  appearance,  which,  though  it  did 
not  satisfy  himself,  seemed  so  plausible  to  them,  that  it  dis- 
pelled their  fears,  and  silenced  their  murmurs. 

On  the  first  of  October,  they  were  about  seven  hundred 
and  seventy  leagues  west  of  the  Canaries.  They  had  now 
been  above  three  weeks  at  sea :  all  their  prognostics  of  dis- 
covery, drawn  from  the  flight  of  birds,  and  other  circumstari- 
ces;  had  proved  fallacious,  and  their  prospect  of  success  seem- 
ed now  to  be  as  distant  as  ever.  The  spirit  of  discontent 
and  of  mutiny  began  to  manifest  itself  among  the  sailors, 
and,  by  degrees,  the  contagion  spread  from  ship  to  ship. 

All  agreed,  that  Columbus  should  be  compelled,  by  force, 
to  return,  while  their  crazy  vessels  were  yet  in  a  condition 
to  keep  the  sea;  and  some  even  proposed  to  throw  him 
overboard,  as  the  most  expeditious  method  of  getting  rid 
of  his  remonstrances,  and  of  securing  a  seasonable  return  to 
their  native  land. 

Columbus  was  fully  sensible  of  his  perilous  situation.  He 
perceived .  that  it  would  be  of  no  avail  to  have  recourse  to 
any  of  his  former  expedients,  to  lead  on  the  hopes  of  his 
companions,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to  rekindle  any  zeal 
for  the  success  of  the  expedition,  among  men,  in  whose 
breasts  fear  had  extinguished  every  generous  sentiment. 

He  found  it  necessary  to  soothe  passions,  which  he  could 
no  longer  command,  and  to  give  way  to  a  torrent  too  im- 
petuous to  be  checked.  He  accordingly  promised  his  men, 
that  he  would  comply  with  their  request,  provided  they 
would  accompany  him,  and  obey  his  commands,  for  three 
days  longer ;  and  if,  duri'ng  that  time,  land  were  not  dis- 
covered, he  would  then  abandon  the  enterprise,  and  direct 
his  course  towards  Spain. 

Enraged  as  the  sailors  were,  and  impatient  as  they  were 
of  returning  to  their  native  country,  this  proposition  did  not 
appear  to  them  unreasonable:  nor  did  Columbus  hazard 
much  in  confining  himself  to  a  time  so  short;  for  the  pres'- 
ages  of  discovering  land  had  become  so  numerous  and  pro- 
mising, that  he  deemed  them  infallible. 

For  some  days,  the  sounding  line  had  reached  the  bot- 
tom ;  and  the  soil,  which  it  brought  up,  indicated  land  to  be 
at  no  great  distance.  The  flocks  of  birds  increased,  and 
were  composed  not  only  of  sea-fowl,  but  of  such  land  birds 
as  could  not  be  supposed  to  fly  far  from  the  shore. 

The  crew  of  the  Pinta  observed  a  cane  floating,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  newly  cut,  and  likewise  a  piece  of 
timber,  artificially  carved.  The  sailors  aboard  the  Nigna 


12  NATIONAL  READER. 

took  up  the  branch  of  a  tree,  with  red  berries,  perfectly  fresh. 
The  clouds,  around  the  setting  sun,  assumed  a  new  appear- 
ance ;  the  air  was  more  mild  and  warm ;  and,  during  night, 
the  wind  became  unequal  and  variable. 

From  all  these  symptoms,  Columbus  was  so  confident  of 
being  near  land,  that,  on  the  evening  of  the  eleventh  of 
October,  after  public  prayers  for  success,  he  ordered  the 
sails  to  be  furled,  and  strict  watch  to  be  kept,  lest  the  ship 
should  be  driven  ashore  in  the  night.  During  this  interval 
of  suspense  and  expectation,  no  man  shut  his  eyes ;  all  kept 
upon  deck,  gazing  intently  towards  that  quarter  where  thev 
expected  to  discover  the  land,  which  had  been  so  long  the 
object  of  their  wishes. 

About  two  hours  before  midnight,  Columbus,  standing  on 
the  forecastle,  observed  a  light  at  a  distance,  and  privately 
pointed  it  out  to  two  of  his  people.  All  three  saw  it  in 
motion,  as  if  it  were  carried  from  place  to  place.  A  little 
after  midnight,  the  joyful  sound  of  Land!  Land!  was  heard 
from  the  Pinta.  But,  having  been  so  often  deceived  by  fal- 
lacious appearances,  they  had  now  become  slow  of  belief, 
and  waited,  in  all  the  anguish  of  uncertainty  and  impatience, 
for  the  return  of  day. 

As  soon  as  morning  dawned,  their  doubts  and  fears  were 
dispelled.  They  beheld  an  island  about  two  leagues  to  the 
north,  whose  flat  and  verdant  fields,  well  stored  with  wood, 
and  watered  with  many  rivulets,  presented  to  them  the 
aspect  of  a  deJightful  country.  The  crew  of  the  Pinta 
instantly  began  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving  to  God,  and  were 
joined,  by  those  of  the  other  ships,  with  tears  of  joy,  and 
transports  of  congratulation. 

This  office  of  gratitude  to  Heaven  was  followed  by  an  act 
of  justice  to  their  commander,  They  threw  themselves  at 
the  feet  of  Columbus,  with  feelings  of  self-condemnation, 
mingled  with  reverence.  They  implored  him  to  pardon 
their  ignorance,  incredulity,  and  insolence,  which  had  creat- 
ed him  so  much  unnecessary  disquiet,  and  had  so  often 
obstructed  the  prosecution  of  his  well-concerted  plan ;  and 
passing,  in  the  warmth  of  their  admiration,  from  one  ex- 
treme to  another,  they  now  pronounced  the  man,  whom 
they  had  so  lately  reviled  and  threatened,  to  be  a  person 
inspired,  by  Heaven,  with  sagacity  and  fortitude  more  than 
human,  in  order  to  accomplish  a  design  so  far  beyond  the 
ideas  and  conceptions  of  all  former  ages. 

As  soon  as  the  sun  arose,  all  the  boats  were  manned  and 
armed.  They  rowed  towards  the  island  with  their  colours 


NATIONAL  READER.  13 

displayed,  warlike  music,  and  other  martial  pomp ;  and,  as 
they  approached  the  coast,  they  saw  it  covered  with  a  mul- 
titude of  people,  whom  the  novelty  of  the  spectacle  had 
drawn  together,  and  whose  attitudes  and  gestures  expressed 
wonder  and  astonishment  at  the  strange  objects  which  pre- 
sented themselves  to  their  view. 

Columbus  was  the  first  European  who  set  foot  in  the  New 
World  which  he  had  discovered.  He  landed  in  a  rich  dress, 
and  with  a  naked  sword  in  his  hand.  His  men  followed, 
and,  kneeling  down,  they  all  kissed  the  ground  which  they 
had  long  desired  to  see. 

They  next  erected  a  crucifix,  and,  prostrating  themselves 
before  it,  returned  thanks  to  God  for  conducting  their  voyage 
to  such  a  happy  issue.  They  then  took  solemn  possession 
of  the  country  for  the  crown  of  Castile  and  Leon,  with  all 
the  formalities  with  which  the  Portuguese  were  accustomed 
to  take  possession  of  their  new  discoveries. 

The  Spaniards,  while  thus  employed,  were  surrounded  by 
many  of  the  natives,  who  gazed,  in  silent  admiration,  upon 
actions  which  they  could  not  comprehend,  and  of  which 
they  did  not  foresee  the  consequences.  The  dress  of  the 
Spaniards,  the  whiteness  of  their  skins,  their  beards,  their 
arms,  appeared  strange  and  surprising. 

The  vast  machines,  in  which  they  had  traversed  the 
ocean,  that  seemed  to  move  upon  the  water  with  wings,  and 
uttered  a  dreadful  sound,  resembling  thunder,  accompanied 
with  lightning  and  smoke,  struck  them  with  such  terror, 
that  they  began  to  respect  their  new  guests  as  a  superior 
order  of  beings,  and  concluded  that  they  were  children  of 
the  sun,  who  had  descended  to  visit  the  earth. 

The  Europeans  were  hardly  less  amazed  at  the  scene 
DOW  before  them.  Every  herb,  and  shrub,  and  tree,  was 
different  from  those  which  flourished  in  Europe.  The  soil 
seemed  to  be  rich,  but  bore  few  marks  of  cultivation.  The 
climate,  even  to  Spaniards,  felt  warm,  though  extremely 
delightful. 

The  inhabitants  were  entirely  naked:  their  black  hair, 
long  and  uncurled,  floated  upon  their  shoulders,  or  was 
bound  in  tresses  around  their  heads :  they  had  no  beards  ; 
their  complexion  was  of  a  dusky  copper  colour;  their  fea- 
tures singular,  rather  than  disagreeable  ;  their  aspect  gentle 
and  timid. 

^  Though   not   tall,  they   were    well   shaped   and   active. 
Their  faces,  and  other  parts  of  their  body    were  fantasti- 
2 


*4  NATIONAL  READER. 

cally  painted  with  glaring  colours.  They  were  shy  at  first, 
through  fear,  but  soon  became  familiar  with  the  Spaniards, 
and,  with  transports  of  joy,  received  from  them  hawks'  bells, 
glass  beads,  and  other  baubles ;  in  return  for  which,  they 
gave  such  provisions  as  they  had,  and  some  cotton  yarn,  the 
only  commodity  of  value  which  they  could  produce. 

Towards  evening,  Columbus  returned  to  his  ships,  accom- 
panied by  many  of  the  islanders  in  their  boats,  which  they 
called  canoes;  and,  though  rudely  formed  out  of  the  trunk  of 
a  single  tree,  they  rowed  them  with  surprising  dexterity. 

Thus,  in  the  first  interview  between  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Old  World  and  those  of  the  New,  every  thing  was  conduct- 
ed amicably,  and  to  their  mutual  satisfaction.  The  former, 
enlightened  and  ambitious,  formed  already  vast  ideas  with  re- 
spect to  the  advantages  which  they  might  derive  from  those 
regions  that  began  to  open  to  their  view.  The  latter,  simple 
and  undiscerning,  had  no  foresight  of  the  calamities  and  de- 
solation, which  were  now  approaching  their  country. 


LESSON  II. 

A  good  Scholar. — MAY. 

A  GOOD  scholar  is  known  by  his  obedience  to  the  rules  o\" 
the  school,  and  to  the  directions  of  his  teacher.  He  does 
not  give  his  teacher  the  trouble  of  telling  him  the  same 
thing  over  and  over  again ;  but  says  or  does  immediately 
whatever  he  is  desired.  His  attendance  at  the  proper  time 
of  school  is  always  punctual.  Fearful  of  being  too  late,  as 
soon  as  the  hour  of  meeting  approaches,  he  hastens  to  the 
school,  takes  his  place  quietly,  and  instantly  attends  to  his 
lesson.  He  is  remarkable  for  his  diligence  and  attention. 
He  reads  no  other  book  than  that  which  he  is  desired  to 
read  by  his  master.  He  studies  no  lessons  but  those  which 
are  appointed  for  the  day. 

He  takes  no  toys  from  his  pocket  to  amuse  himself  or 
others ;  he  has  no  fruit  to  eat,  no  sweetmeats  to  give  away. 
If  any  of  his  companions  attempt  to  take  off  his  eye  or  his 
mind  from  his  lesson,  he  does  not  give  heed  to  them.  If 
they  still  try  to  make  him  idle,  he  bids  them  let  him  alone, 
and  do  their  own  duties.  And  if,  after  this,  they  go  on  to 
disturb  and  vex  him,  he  informs  the  teacher,  that,  both  for 


NATIONAL  READER.  15 

their  sake  and  for  his  own,  he  may  interfere,  and,  by  a  wise 
reproof,  prevent  the  continuance  of  such  improper  and  hurt- 
ful conduct. 

When  strangers  enter  the  school,  he  does  not  stare  rudely 
in  their  faces ;  but  is  as  attentive  to  his  lesson  as  if  no  one 
were  present  but  the  master.  If  they  speak  to  him,  he 
answers  with  modesty  and  respect.  When  the  scholars  in 
his  class  are  reading,  spelling,  or  repeating  any  thing,  he  is 
very  attentive,  and  studies  to  learn  by  listening  to  them. 
His  great  desire  is  to  improve,  and  therefore  he  is  never 
idle, — not  even  when  he  might  be  so,  and  yet  escape  detec- 
tion and  punishment. 

He  minds  his  business  as  well  when  his  teacher  is  out  of 
sight,  as  when  he  is  standing  near  him,  or  looking  at  him. 
If  possible,  he  is  more  diligent  when  his  teacher  happens  for 
a  little  to  be  away  from  him,  that  he  may  show  "  all  good 
fidelity"  in  this,  as  in  every  thing  else.  He  is  desirous  of 
adding  to  the  knowledge  he  has  already  gained,  of  learning 
something  useful  every  day.  And  he  is  not  satisfied  if  a 
day  passes,  without  making  him  wiser  than  he  was  before, 
in  those  things  which  will  be  of  real  benefit  to  him. 

When  he  has  a  difficult  lesson  to  learn,  or  a  hard  task  to 
perform,  he  does  not  fret  or  murmur  at  it.  He  knows  that 
his  master  would  not  have  prescribed  it  to  him,  unless  he 
had  thought  that  he  was  able  for  it,  and  that  it  would  do 
him  good.  He  therefore  sets  about  it  readily;  and  he  en- 
courages himself  with  such  thoughts  as  these :.  "  My  parents 
will  be  very  glad  when  they  hear  that  I  have  learned  this 
difficult  lesson,  and  performed  this  hard  task.  My  teacher, 
also,  will  be  pleased  with  me  for  my  diligence.  And  I  my- 
self shall  be  comfortable  and  happy  when  the  exercise  is 
finished.  The  sooner  and  the  more  heartily  I  apply  myself 
to  it,  the  sooner  and  the  better  it  will  be  done." 

When  he  reads,  his  words  are  pronounced  so  distinctly, 
that  you  can  easily  hear  and  understand  him.  His  copy 
book  is  fairly  written,  and  free  from  blots  and  scrawls.  His 
letters  are  clear  and  full,  and  his  strokes  broad  and  fine. 
His  figures  are  well  made,  accurately  cast  up,  and  neatly 
put  down  in  their  regular  order ;  and  his  accounts  are,  in 
general,  free  from  mistakes. 

He  not  only  improves  himself,  but  he  rejoices  in  the  im- 
provement of  others.  He  loves  to  hear  them  commended, 
and  to  see  them  rewarded.  "  If  I  do  well,"  he  says,  "  I  shall 
be  commended  and  rewarded  too ;  and  if  all  did  well, 


16  NATIONAL  READER. 

what  a  happy  school  would  ours  be  !  We  ourselves  would 
be  much  more  comfortable ;  and  our  master  would  have  a 
great  deal  less  trouble  and  distress  than  he  has  on  account 
of  the  idleness  and  inattention,  of  which  too  many  of  us 
are  guilty." 

His  books  he  is  careful  to  preserve  from  every  thing  that 
might  injure  them.  Having  finished  his  lesson,  he  puts 
them  in  their  proper  place,  and  does  not  leave  them  to  be 
tossed  about,  and,  by  that  means,  torn  and  dirtied.  He  never 
forgets  to  pray  for  the  blessing  of  God  on  himself,  on  his 
school-fellows,  and  on  his  teacher ;  for  he  knows  that  the 
blessing  of  God  is  necessary  to  make  his  education  truly  use- 
ful to  him,  both  in  this  life,  and  in  that  which  is  to  come. 

And,  finally,  it  is  his  constant  endeavour  to  behave  well 
when  he  is  out  of  school,  as  well  as  when  he  is  in  it.  He 
remembers  that  the  eye  of  God  is  ever  upon  him,  and  that 
he  must  at  last  give  an  account  of  himself  to  the  great  Judge 
of  all.  And,  therefore,  he  studies  to  practise,  at  all  times, 
the  religious  and  moral  lessons  that  he  receives  from  his 
master,  or  that  he  reads  in  the  Bible,  or  that  he  meets  with 
in  the  other  books  that  are  given  him  to  peruse ;  and  to 
"  walk  in  all  the  commandments  and  ordinances  of  the  Lord, 
blameless." 


LESSON  III. 

The  good  Schoolmaster. — FULLER. 

THERE  is  scarce  any  profession  in  the  commonwealth 
more  necessary,  which  is  so  slightly  performed,  as  that  of 
a  schoolmaster :  the  reasons  whereof  I  conceive  to  be  these. 
First,  young  scholars  make  this  calling  their  refuge ;  yea, 
perchance,  before  they  have  taken  any  degree  in  the  uni- 
versity, commence  schoolmasters  in  the  country,  as  if  no- 
thing else  were  required  to  set  up  this  profession,  but  only 
a  rod  and  a  ferule. 

Secondly,  others,  who  are  able,  use  it  only  as  a  passage  to 
better  preferment,  to  patch  the  rents  in  their  present  fortune, 
till  they  can  provide  a  new  one,  and  betake  themselves  to 
some  more  gainful  calling. 

Thirdly,  they  are  disheartened  from  doing  their  best  with 
the  miserable  reward  which,  in  some  places,  they  receive; 


NATIONAL  READER.  17 

•* 

being  masters  to  the  children,  and  slaves  to  their  parents* 
But  see  how  well  our  schoolmaster  behaves  himself. 

He  studieth  his  scholars  natures  as  carefully  as  they 
their  books,  and  ranks  their  dispositions  into  several 
forms.  And,  though  it  may  seem  difficult  for  him,  in  a  great 
school,  to  descend  to  all  particulars,  yet  experienced  school- 
masters may  quickly  make  a  grammar  of  boys'  natures,  and 
reduce  them  all  (saving  some  few  exceptions)  to  these  genera] 
rules : 

1.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  industrious.     The  con- 
junction of  two   such  planets  in  a^  youth  presa'ges  much 
good  unto  him.     To  such  a  lad  a  frown  may  be  a  whipping, 
and  a  whipping  a  death ;  yea,  where  his  master  whips  him 
once,  shame  whips  him  all  the  week  after.     Such  natures 
he  useth  \vith  j  \  gentleness. 

2.  Those  that  are  ingenious  and  idle.     These  think,  with 
the  hare  in  the  fable,  that,  running  with  snails,   (so   they 
count  the  rest  of  their  school-fellows,)  they  shall  come  soon 
enough  to  the  post ;  though  sleeping  a  good  while  before  their 
starting.     O,  a  good  rod  would  finely  take  them  napping. 

3.  Those  that  be  dull  and  diligent.     Wines,  the  stronger 
they  be,  the  more  lees  they  have  wrhen  they  are  new.    Many 
boys  are  muddy-headed  till  they  be  clarified  with  age,  and 
such  afterwards  prove  ihe  best.     Bristol  diamonds  are  both 
bright,  and  squared,  and  pointed,  by  nature,  and  yet  are  soft 
and  worthless ;  whereas  orient  ones  in  India  are  rough  and 
rugged  naturally.     Hard,  rugged,  and  dull  natures  of  youth 
acquit  themselves  afterwards  the  jewels  of  the  country ;  and 
therefore  their  dulness  is  at  first  to  be  borne  with,  if  they  be 
diligent.     That  schoolmaster  deserves  to  be  beaten  himself, 
who  beats  nature  in  a  boy  for  a  fault. 

4.  Those   that  are   invincibly  dull,   and   negligent  also. 
Correction  may  reform  the  latter,  not  amend  the   former. 
All  the  whetting  in  the  world  can  never  set  a  razor's  edge 
on  that  which  hath  no  steel  in  it.     Such  boys  he  consigneth 
over  to  other  professions.     Shipwrights  and*  boatmakers  will 
choose  those  crooked  pieces  of  timber,  which  other  carpen- 
ters refuse. 

He  is  able,  diligent,  and  methodical  in  his  teaching;  not 
leading  them  rather  in  a  circle  than  forwards.  He  minces 
his  precepts  for  children  to  swallow,  hanging  clogs  on  the 
nimbleness  of  his  own  soul,  that  his  scholars  may  go  along 
with  him.  He  is  moderate  in  inflicting*  even  deserved  cor- 
rection. 


18  NATIONAL  READER. 

> 

Many  a  schoolmaster  seemeth  to  understand  that  school 
ing  his  pupils  meaneth  scolding  and  scoring  them;  and 
therefore,  in  bringing  them  forward,  he  useth  the  lash  more 
than  the  leading  string. 

Such  an  Orbilius^  mars  more  scholars  than  he  makes, 
The  tyr'anny  of  such  a  man  hath  caused  the  tongues  of 
many  to  stammer,  which  spake  plainly  by  nature,  arid  whose 
stuttering,  at  first,  was  nothing  else  but  fears  quavering  on 
their  speech  at  their  master's  presence. 


LESSON  IV. 

Attention  and  Industry  rewarded. — JUERQULN. 

A  RICH  husbandman  had  two  sons,  the  one  exactly  a  year 
older  than  the  other.  The  very  day  the  second  was  born, 
he  set,  in  the  entrance  of  his  orchard,  two  young  apple-trees, 
of  equal  size,  which  he  cultivated  with  the  same  care,  and 
which  grew  so  equally,  that  no  person  could  perceive  the 
least  difference  between  them. 

When  his  children  were  capable  of  handling  garden,  tools, 
he  took  them,  one  fine  morning  in  spring,  to  see  these  two 
trees,  which  he  had  planted  for  them,  and  called  after  their 
names ;  and,  when  they  had  sufficiently  admired  their  growth, 
and  the  number  of  blossoms  that  covered  them,  he  said,  "  My 
dear  children,  I  give  you  these  trees  :  you  see  they  are  in 
good  condition.  They  will  thrive  as  much  by  your  care,  as 
they  will  decline  by  your  negligence ;  and  their  fruit  will 
reward  you  in  pioporlion  to  your  labour." 

The  youngest,  named  Edmund,  was  industrious  and 
attentive.  He  busied  himself  in  clearing  his  tree  of  insects 
that  would  hurt  it,  and  he  propped  up  its  stem,  to  prevent  its 
taking  a  wrong  bent.  He  loosened  the  earth  about  it,  that 
the  warmth  of  the  sun,  and  the  moisture  of  the  dews,  might 
cherish  the  roots.  His  mother  had  not  tended  him  more 
carefully  in  his  infancy,  than  he  tended  his  young  apple- 
tree. 

His  brother,  Moses,  did  not  imitate  his  example.  He 
spent  a  great  deal  of  time  on  a  mount  that  was  near,  throw- 

*  Orbilius, — a  grammarian  of  Beneventum,  who  was  the  first  instructor 
of  the  poet  Horace.  He  was  naturally  of  a  severe  disposition,  of  which  his 
pupils  often  felt  the  effects. 


NATIONAL  READER.  19 

ing  stones  at  the  passengers  in  the  road.  He  went  among 
all  the  little  dirty  boys  in  the  neighbourhood,  to  box  witb 
them ;  so  that  he  was  often  seen  with  broken  shins  and 
black  eyes,  from  the  kicks  and  blows  he  received  in  his 
quarrels. 

In  short,  he  neglected  his  tree  so  far,  that  he  never 
thought  of  it,  till,  one  day  in  autumn,  he,  by  chance,  saw 
Edmund's  tree  so  full  of  apples,  streaked  with  purple  and 
gold,  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  props  which  supported  its 
branches,  the  weight  of  its  fruit  must  have  bent  it  to  the 
ground, 

StrucK  with  the  sight  of  so  fine  a  tree,  he  hastened  to  his 
own,  hoping  to  find  as  large  a  crop  upon  it ;  but,  to  his  great 
surprise,  he  saw  scarcely  any  thing,  except  branches  covered 
with  moss,  and  a  few  yellow,  withered  leaves.  s  Full  of  pas- 
sion and  jealousy,  he  ran  to  his  father,  and  said,  "  Father, 
what  sort  of  a  tree  is  that  which  you  have  given  me  ?  It  is 
as  dry  as  a  broomstick ;  and  I  shall  not  have  ten  apples  on 
it.  My  brother  you  have  used  better :  bid  him,  at  least, 
share  his  apples  with  me." 

"  Share  with  you  !"  said  his  father :  "  so,  the  industrious 
must  lose  his  labour  to  feed  the  idle  !  Be  satisfied  with 
your  lot ;  it  is  the  effect  of  your  negligence  ;  -and  do  not 
think  to  accuse  me  of  injustice,  when  you  see  your  brother's 
rich  crop. 

"  Your  tree  was  as  fruitful,  and  in  as  good  order  as  his : 
it  bore  as  many  blossoms,  and  grew  in  the  same  soil :  only 
it  was  not  fostered  with  the  same  care.  Edmund  has  kept 
his  tree  clear  of  hurtful  insects  ;  but  you  have  suffered  them 
to  eat  up  yours  in  its  blossoms. 

•*  As  I  do  not  choose  to  let  any  thing  which  God  has  given 
me,  and  for  which  I  hold  myself  accountable  to  him,  go  to 
ruin,  I  shall  take  this  tree  from  you,  and  call  it  no  more  by 
your  name.  It  must  pass  through  your  brother's  hands, 
before  it  can  recover  itself;  and,  from  this  moment,  both  it, 
and  the  fruit  it  may  bear,  are  his  property. 

"  You  may,  if  you  will,  go  into  my  nursery,  and  look  for 
another,  and  rear  it,  to  make  amends  for  your  fault ;  but,  if 
you  neglect  it,  that  too  shall  be  given  to  your  brother  for 
assisting  me  in  my  labour." 

Moses  felt  the  justice  of  his  father's  sentence,  and  the 
wisdom  of  his  design.  He,  therefore,  went  that  moment 
into  the  nursery,  and  chose  one  of  the  most  thriving  apple- 
trees  he  could  find.  Edmund  assisted  him,  with  his  advice, 


20  NATIONAL  READER. 

in  rearing  it ;  Moses  embraced  every  occasion  of  paying 
attention  to  it. 

He  was  now  never  out  of  humour  with  his  comrades,^  and 
still  less  with  himself;  for  he  applied  cheerfully  to  work ; 
and,  in  autumn,  he  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  his  tree  fully 
answer  his  hopes.  Thus  he  had  the  double  advantage  of 
enriching  himself  with  a  splendid  crop  of  fruit,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  of  subduing  the  vicious  habits  he  had  contracted. 

His  father  was  so  well  pleased  with  this  change,  that,  the 
following  year,  he  divided  the  produce  of  a  small  orchard 
between  him  and  his  brother. 


LESSON  V. 

On  Lying. — CHESTERFIELD. 

I  REALLY  know  nothing  more  criminal,  more  mean,  and 
more  ridiculous,  than  lying.  It  is  the  production  either  of 
malice,  cowardice,  or  vanity ;  and  generally  misses  of  its 
aim  in  every  one  of  these  views ;  for  lies  are  always  de- 
tected sooner  or  later.  If  I  tell  a  malicious  lie,  in  order  to 
affect  any  man's  fortune  or  character,  I  may  indeed  injure 
him  for  some  time ;  but  I  shall  be  sure  to  be  the  greatest 
sufferer  at  last :  for,  as  soon  as  I  am  detected,  (and  detected 
I  most  certainly  shall  be,)  I  am  blasted  for  the  infamous 
attempt;  and  whatever  is  said  afterwards  to  the  disadvan- 
tage of  that  person,  however  true,  passes  for  calumny. 

If  I  lie,  or  equivocate,  (for  it  is  the  same  thing,)  in  order 
to  excuse  myself  for  something  that  I  have  said  or  done, 
and  to  avoid  the  danger  or  the  shame  that  I  apprehend  from 
it,  I  discover,  at  once,  my  fear,  as  well  as  my  falsehood ; 
and  only  increase,  instead  of  avoiding,  the  danger  and  the 
shame ;  I  show  myself  to  be  the  lowest  and  meanest  of 
mankind,  and  am  sure  to  be  always  treated  as  such.  Fear, 
instead  of  avoiding,  invites  danger ;  for  concealed  cowards 
will  insult  known  ones.  If  one  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
be-  in  the  wrong,  there  is  something  noble  in  frankly  owning 
it ;  it  is  the  only  way  of  atoning  for  it,  and  the  only  way  of 
being  forgiven. 

Equivocating,  evading,  shuffling,  in  order  to  remove  a 
present  danger  or  inconveniency,  is  something  so  mean,  and 
betrays  so  much  fear,  that  whoever  practises  them  always 

*  Pron.  cum'-rades. 


NATIONAL  READER.  21 

deserves  to  be,  and  often  will  be,  kicked.  There  is  another 
sort  of  lies,  inoffensive  enough  in  themselves,  but  wonder- 
fully ridiculous :  I  mean  those  lies  which  a  mistaken  vanity 
suggests,  that  defeat  the  very  end  for  which  they  are  calcu- 
lated, and  terminate  in  the  humiliation  and  confusion  of 
their  author,  who  is  sure  to  be  detected.  These  are  chiefly 
narrative  and  historical  lies,  all  intended  to  do  infinite  ho- 
nour to  their  author. 

He  is  always  the  hero  of  his  own  romances ;  he  has  been 
in  dangers,  from  which  nobody  but  himself  ever  escaped ;  he 
has  seen  with  his  own  eyes  whatever  other  people  have 
heard  or  read  of;  and  has  ridden  more  miles  post  in  one 
day,  ihan  ever  courier  went  in  two.  He  is  soon  discovered, 
ancl  as  soon  becomes  the  object  of  universal  contempt  and 
ridicule. 

Remember,  then,  as  long  as  you.  live,  that  nothing  but 
strict  truth  can  carry  you  through  the  world,  with  either 
your  conscience  or  your  honour  unwounded.  It  is  not  only 
your  duty,  but  your  interest :  as  a  proof  of  which,  you  may 
always  observe,  that  the  greatest  fools  are  the  greatest  liars. 
For  my  own  part,  I  judge,  by  every  man's  truth,  of  his 
degree  of  understanding. 


LESSON  VI. 

Portrait  of  a  Patriarch. — ADDISON. 

I  CANNOT  forbear  making  an  extract  of  several  passages, 
which  I  have  always  read  with  great  delight,  in  the  book  of 
Job.  It  is  the  account,  which  that  holy  man  gives,  of  his 
behaviour  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  and,  if  considered 
only  as  a  human  composition,  is  a  finer  picture  of  a  charita- 
ble and  good-natured  man  than  is  to  be  met  with  in  any 
other  author. 

"  Oh  that  I  were  as  in  months  past,  as  in  the  days  when 
God  preserved  me ;  when  his  candle  shined  upon  my  head, 
and  when,  by  his  light,  I  walked  through  darkness ;  when 
the  Almighty  was  yet  with  me ;  when  my  children  were 
about  me ;  when  I  washed  my  steps  with  butter,  and  the 
rock  poured  out  rivers  of  oil. 

"  When  the  ear  heard  me,  then  it  blessed  me ;  and  when 
the  eye  saw  me.  it  gave  witness  to  me ;  because  I  delivered 


2  NATIONAL  READER. 

the  poor  that  cried,  and  the  fatherless,  and  him  that  had 
none  to  help  him.  The  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to 
perish  came  upon  me ;  and  I  caused  the  widow's  heart  to 
sing  for  joy.  I  was  eyes  to  the  blind,  and  feet  was  I  to  the 
lame ;  I  was  a  father  to  the  poor ;  and  the  cause  which  I 
knew  not  I  searched  out. 

"  Did  not  I  weep  for  him  that  was  in  trouble  ?  Was  not 
my  soul  grieved  for  the  poor  ?  Let  me  be  weighed  in  an 
even  balance,  that  God  may  know  mine  integrity.  If  I  did 
despise  the  cause  of  my  man-servant  or  of  my  maid-servant, 
when  they  contended  with  me,  what  then  shall  I  do  when 
God  riseth  up  ?  and  when  he  visiteth,  what  shall  I  answer 
him  ?  Did  not  he  that  made  me  make  him  also  ? 

"  If  I  have  withheld  the  poor  from  their  desire,  or  have 
caused  the  eyes  of  the  widow  to  fail,  or  have  eaten  my 
morsel  myself  alone,  and  the  fatherless  hath  not  eaten  there- 
of; if  I  have  seen  any  perish  for  want  of  clothing,  or  any 
poor  without  covering ;  if  his  loins  have  not  blessed  me, 
and  if  he  were  not  warmed  with  the  fleece  of  my  sheep ;  if 
I  have  lifted  up  my  hand  against  the  fatherless,  when  I  saw 
my  help  in  the  gate ;  then  let  mine  arm  fall  from  my  shoul- 
der-blade, and  mine  arm  be  broken  from  the  bone. 

"I  rejoiced  not  at  the  destruction  of  him  that  hated  me, 
nor  lifted  up  myself  when  evil  found  him ;  neither  have  I 
suffered  my  mouth  to  sin,  by  wishing  a  curse  to  his  soul. 
The  stranger  did  not  lodge  in  the  street ;  but  I  opened  my 
doors  to  the  traveller.  If  my  land  cry  against  me,  or  the 
furrows  thereof  complain ;  if  I  have  eaten  the  fruits  thereof 
without  money,  or  have  caused  the  owners  thereof  to  lose 
their  life ;  let  thistles  grow  instead  of  wheat,  and  cockles 
instead  of  barley." 


LESSON   VII. 

An  uncharitable  Spirit  rebuked. — RABBINICAL. 

AND  it  came  to  pass,  after  these  things,  that  Abraham  sat 
in  the  door  of  his  tent,  about  the  going  down  of  the  san. 
And  behold,  a  man,  bent  with  age,  came  from  the  way  of 
the  wilderness,  leaning  on  a  staff!  And  Abraham  arose, 
and  met  him,  and  said  unto  him,  "  Turn  in,  I  pray  thee, 
and  wash  thy  feet,  and  tarry  all  night ;  and  thou  shaft  arise 


NATIONAL  READER.  23 

early  in  the  morning,  and  go  on  thy  way."  And  the  man 
said,  "  Nay ;  for  I  will  abide  under  this  tree." 

But  Abraham  pressed  him  greatly :  so  he  turned,  and 
they  went  into  the  tent:  and  Abraham 'baked  unleavened 
bread,  and  they  did  eat.  And  when  Abraham  saw  that  the 
man  blessed  not  God,  he  said  unto  him,  "  Wherefore  dost 
thou  not  worship  the  most  high  God,  Creator  of  heaven  and 
earth  ?"  And  the  man  answered,  and  said,  "  I  do  not  wor- 
ship  thy  God,  neither  do  I  call  upon  his  name ;  for  I  have 
made  to  myself  a  god,  which  abideth  always  in  my*  house, 
and  pro  vide  th  me  with  all  things." 

And  Abraham's  zeal  was  kindled  against  the  man,  and  he 
arose,  and  fell  upon  him,  and  drove  him  forth,  with  blows, 
into  the  wilderness.  And  God  called  unto  Abraham,  say- 
ing, "  Abraham,  where  is  the  stranger  ?"  And  Abraham 
answered,  and  said,  "  Lord,  he  would  not  worship  thee,  nei- 
ther would  he  call  upon  thy  name ;  therefore  have  I  driven 
him  out  from  before  my  face  into  the  wilderness." 

And  God  said,  "  Have  I  borne  with  him  these  hundred  and 
ninety  and  eight  years,  and  nourished  him,  and  clothed  him, 
notwithstanding  his  rebellion  against  me ;  and  couldst  not 
thou,  who  art  thyself  a  sinner,  bear  with  him  one  night  ?" 


LESSON  VIII. 

Paraphrase  of  the  Nineteenth  Psalm. — ADDISON. 

THE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim : 
The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  Almighty  Hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth  ;* 

*Pron.  bSrth. 


24  NATIONAL  READER. 

Whilst  all  the  stars,  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets,  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings,  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  this  dark  terrestrial  ball ! 
What  though  nor  real  voice,  nor  sound. 
Amid  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ! 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
For  ever  singing,  as  they  shine, 
"  The  Hand  that  made  us  is  Divine." 


LESSON  IX. 

Morning  Meditations. — H AWKE  s WORTH 

IN  sleep's  serene  oblivion  laid, 
I've  safely  passed  the  silent  night ; 

Again  1  see  the  breaking  shade, 
Again  behold  the  morning  light. 

New-born,  I  bless  the  waking  hour ; 

Once  more,  with  awe,  rejoice  to  be ; 
My  conscious  soul  resumes  her  power, 

And  soars,  my  guardian  God,  to  thee. 

O  guide  me  through  the  various  maze 
My  doubtful  feet  are  doomed  to  tread ; 

And  spread  thy  shield's  protecting  blaze 
Where  dangers  press  around  my  head. 

A  deeper  shade  shall  soon  impend — 
A  deeper  sleep  mine  eyes  oppress  : — 

Yet  then  thy  strength  shall  still  defend ; 
Thy  goodness  still  delight  to  bless. 

'That  deeper  shade  shall  break  away; 

That  deeper  sleep  shall  leave  mine  eyes 
Thy  light  shall  give  eternal  day ; 
Thy  love,  the  rapture  of  the  skies. 


NATIONAL  READER.  25 

LESSON  X. 

Nature's  Music. — ANONYMOUS. 

NAY,  tell  me  not  of  lordly  halls ! 

My  minstrels  are  the  trees  ; 
The  moss  and  the  rock  are  my  tapestried  walls, 

Earth's  sounds  my  symphonies. 

There's  music  sweeter  to  my  soul 

In  the  weed  by  the  wild  wind  fanned, 
In  the  heave  of  the  surge,  than  ever  stole 

From  mortal  minstrel's  hand. 

There's  mighty  music  in  the  roar 

Of  the  oaks  on  the  mountain's  side, 
When  the  whirlwind  hursts  on  their  foreheads  hoar, 

And  the  lightning  flashes  wide. 

There's  music  in  the  city's  hum 

Heard  in  the  noontide  glare, 
When  its  thousand  mingling  voices  come 

On  the  breast  of  the  sultry  air. 

There's  music  in  the  forest  stream, 

As  it  plays  through  the  deep  ravine,^ 
Where  never  summer's  breath  or  beam 

Has  pierced  its  woodland  screen. 

There's  music  in  the  thundering  sweep 

Of  the  mountain  waterfall, 
As  its  torrents  struggle,  and  foam,  and  leap 

From  the  brow  of  its  marble  wall. 

There's  music  in  the  dawning  morn, 

Ere  the  lark  his  pinion  dries — 
In  the  rush  of  the  breeze  through  the  dewy  corn, 

Through  the  garden's  perfumed  dyes. 

There's  music  on  the  twilight  cloud, 

As  the  clanging  wild  swans  spring ; 
As  homeward  the  screaming  ravens  crowd, 

Like  squadrons  on  the  wing. 

*  Pron*  ra-yeen'. 
3 


26  NATIONAL  READER. 

There's  music  in  the  depth  of  night, 
When  the  world  is  still  and  dim, 

And  the  stars  flame  out  in  their  pomp  of  light, 
Like  thrones  of  the  cherubim  ! 


LESSON  XL 

Religious  Contemplation  of  the  Works  of  God. — MOODIE. 

CONTEMPLATE  the  great  scenes  of  nature,  and  accustom 
yourselves  to  connect  them  with  the  perfections  of  God.  All 
vast  and  unmeasurable  objects  are  fitted  to  impress  the  soul 
with  awe.  The  mountain,  which  rises  above  the  neigh- 
bouring hills,  and  hides  its  head  in  the  sky ;  the  sounding1, 
unfathomed,  boundless  deep  ;  the  expanse  of  heaven,  where, 
above,  and  around,  no  limit  checks  the  wondering  eye ; 
these  objects  fill  and  elevate  the  mind — they  produce  a 
solemn  frame  of  spirit,  which  accords  with  the  sentiment 
of  religion. 

From  the  contemplation  of  what  is  great  and  magnificent 
in  nature,  the  soul  rises  to  the  Author  of  all.  We  think  of 
the  time  which  preceded  the  birth  of  the  universe,  when  no 
being  existed  but  God  alone.  While  unnumbered  systems 
arise  in  order  before  us,  created  by  his  power,  arranged  by 
his  wisdom,  and  filled  with  his  presence,  the  earth,  and  the 
,«^n,  with  all  that  they  contain,  are  hardly  beheld  amidst  the 
immensity  of  his  works.  In  the  boundless  subject  the  soul 
is  lost.  "  It  is  he  who  sitteth  on  the  circle  of  the  earth,  and 
the  inhabitants  thereof  are  as  grasshoppers.  He  weigheth 
the  mountains  in  scales.  He  taketh  up  the  isles  as  a  very 
little  thing.  Lord,  what  is  man  that  thou  art  mindful 
of  him  !" 

Pause  for  a  wrhile,  ye  travellers  on  the  earth,  to  contem'- 
plate  the  universe  in  which  you  dwell,  and  the  glory  of  him 
who  created  it.  What  a  scene  of  wonders  is  here  present- 
f  ed  to  your  view !  If  beheld  with  a  religious  eye,  what 
'  a  temple  for  the  worship  of  the  Almighty !  The  earth  is 
spread  out  before  you,  reposing  amidst  the  desolation  of 
winter,  or  clad  in  the  verdure  of  the  spring :  smiling  m  the 
beauty  of  summer,  or  loaded  with  autumnal  fruit;  open- 
ing, to  an  endless  variety  of  beings,  tlie  treasures  of  iheir 


NATIONAL  READER.  27 

Maker's  goodness,  and  ministering  subsistence  and  comfort 
to  every  creature  that  lives. 

The  heavens,  also,  declare  the  glory  of  the  Lord.  The 
sun  cometh  forth  from  his  chambers  to  scatter  the  shades  of 
night,  inviting  you  to  the  renewal  of  your  labours,  adorning 
the  face  of  nature,  and,  as  he  advances  to  his  meridian 
brightness,  cherishing  every  herb  and  every  flower  that 
springe th  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  Nor,  when  he  re- 
tires again  from  your  view,  doth  he  leave  the  Creator  with- 
out a  witness.  He  only  hides  his  own  splendor  for  a  while, 
to  disclose  to  you  a  more  glorious  scene ;  to  show  you  the 
immensity  of  space  filled  with  worlds  unnumbered,  that  your 
imaginations  may  wander,  without  a  limit,  in  the  vast  crea- 
tion of  God. 

What  a  field  is  here  opened  for  the  exercise  of  every 
pious  emotion  !  and  how  irresistibly  do  such  contemplations 
as  these 'awaken  the  sensibility  of  the  soul !  Here  is  infinite 
power  to  impress  you  with  awe ;  here  is  infinite  wisdom  to 
fill  you  with  admiration ;  here  is  infinite  goodness  to  call 
forth  your  gratitude  and  love.  The  correspondence  between 
these  great  objects  and  the  affections  of  the  human  heart,  is 
established  by  nature  itself ;  and  they  need  only  to  be  placed 
before  us,  that  every  religious  feeling  may  be  excited. 


LESSON  XII. 

Criminality  of  Intemperance. — H.  WARE,  JR. 

I  DO  not  mean  to  say,  that  the  habit  of  intemperance  is 
ever  formed  without  temptation,  or  persisted  in  without 
what  may  be  thought  an  excuse.  The  temptation  is  gradual, 
and  insinuating;  the  habit  is  formed  insensibly.  It  is  an 
established  custom  for  men  to  drink  while  they  labour.  The 
poor  man  is  taught,  absurdly,  to  think  a  glass  necessary 
for  his  strength ;  he  finds  another  necessary  for  good  com- 
panionship. He  cannot  go  abroad  without  finding  a  lure  in- 
vitingly held  out  beneath  the  license  of  the  law.  Before  he 
is  aware  of  -it,  a  certain  stimulus  has  become  necessary  to 
his  constitution.  If  he  try  to  amend,  he  is  pressed  by 
this  necessity,  and,  in  a  manner,  compelled  to  maintain  the 
vice ;  though  he  would  give  the  world  to  renounce  it.  And 


28  NATIONAL  READER. 

where,  we  are  asked,  is  the  sin  in  all  this  ?  Is  there  not 
rather  a  call  for  compassion  than  for  censure  ? 

Undoubtedly  there  is  a  call  for  compassion ;  for  deep  and 
earnest  compassion.  So  there  is  in  the  case  of  every  sin, 
when  we  reflect  on  the  circumstances  of  trial  and  tempta- 
tion. The  case  of  t^e  drunkard  is  not,  in  this  respect,  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  other  criminals.  The  man  who,  impel- 
led by  want,  or  the  unprincipled  habits  of  a  bad  education, 
robs  on  the  high  way,  is  driven  by  as  imperious  a  necessity 
as  the  drunkard.  The  temptation  is  as  strong,  the  habit  is 
as  irresistible. 

The  sudden  passion  of  the  murderer  is  as  irresistible  as 
the  appetite  of  the  tippler.  The  cherished  revenge  of  the 
assassin  is  as  strong  an  incitement  as  the  cherished  thirst 
of  the  intemperate.  But  who,  in  these  cases,  excuses  the 
crime  because  of  the  temptation  ?  Who  thinks  it  a  pallia- 
tion of  the  offence,  that  the  state  of  the  offender's  mind  and 
heart  is  such  as  necessarily  to  lead  to  it  ? 

Who  excuses  the  two-fold  crime  of  David,  because  of 
the  greatness  of  the  lust  by  which  he  was  drawn  away  and 
enticed?  Compassionate,  therefore,  as  you  please,  the  con- 
dition of  the  miserable  man  who  is  the  slave  of  intemperate 
habits ;  but  remember  that,  after  all,  his  apology  is  but  the 
same  with  that  of  other  criminals,  and  quite  as  strong  for 
them  as  for  him. 

Indeed,  may  we  not  fairly  go  further,  and  say,  that  there 
are  some  circumstances  which  bring  a  peculiar  aggravation 
to  his  guilt  ?  .  When  we  consider  the  powerful  dissuasive s 
from  this  sin,  is  there  not  an  aggravation  in  that  state  of 
mind,  which  is  not  at  all  affected  by  them  ?  When  we 
reflect  on  the  misery  it  occasions,  must  there  not  be  a  sin- 
gular guilt  in  that  deadness  of  mind,  which  allows  one  cool- 
ly to  produce  that  misery,  without  any  malice  or  bad  inten- 
tion ?  How  thoroughly  must  the  good  affections  be  palsied, 
and  the  moral  sense  destroyed,  when  this  brutalizing  enjoy- 
ment has  become  more  desirable  to  a  man,  than  all  the  rich 
pleasures  which  flow  from  home,  friendship,  health,  and 
reputation ! 

What  an  enormity  of  sin  must  he  have  to  answer  for,  who 
has  depraved  himself  so  far,  that,  when  all  the  felicities  of  a 
rational  and  social  being  are  put  in  the  one  scale,  and  those 
of  a  beastly  self-indulgence  in  the  other,  he  chooses  the  last, 
strips  himself  of  decency  and  honour,  puts  out  the  light  of 
reason,  flings  off  the  attributes  of  a  man,  and  rushes  into  all 


NATIONAL  READER.  29 

the  wickedness  of  voluntary  insanity,  disgusting  idiocy,  and 
profane  beastliness — disgraces  his  friends,  beggars  his  fami- 
ly, initiates  his  children  in  the  dispositions  and  pathway  of 
hell, — becomes  the  corrupter  of  youthful  purity,  and  a  public 
teacher  of  debauchery — with  no  disposition  to  engage  in 
good  pursuits,  and  no  power  to  attend  to  the  things  which 
concern  his  peace,  or  to  take  one  step  toward  the  salvation 
of  his  soul ! 

What  can  be  said  of  such  a  man,  but  that  his  present  and 
eternal  ruin  are  complete  !  Earth  curses  him,  while  he  is 
upon  it ;  and  beyond  it  he  can  see  no  prospect  but  that  of 
the  blackness  of  darkness.  A  drunkard  cannot  inherit  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

I  arn  aware  that  many  are  ready  to  start  back  with  incre- 
dulity and  displeasure,  when  we  speak  of  the  eternal  ruin 
of  any  human  being  :  and  rightly,  if  it  be  denounced  by 
human  wrath  with  insufficient  authority.  But,  in  the  pre- 
sent case,  let  any  considerate  man  reflect  on  the  nature  of 
this  vice,  and  consider  how  it  deforms  arid  brutalizes  the 
whole  man ;  how  it  destroys  the  intellectual  faculties ;  how 
it  palsies  the  moral  affections  ;  how  it  unfits  for  duty,  inca- 
pacitates for  improvement,  disqualifies  for  the  pure  and 
elevated  sentiments  of  devotion,  and  renders  one  as  little 
capable  of  religion  as  of  reason ; — does  he  not  perceive  that 
it  is  impossible  for  such  a  man  to  relish  the  pure,  intellectual, 
spiritual  joys  of  heaven  ?  and  that  his  future  prospects  are, 
therefore,  fearful  and  dark  ? 

If  pure  affections,  penitent  humility,  and  devout  habits, 
be  essential  to  its  bliss,  has  he  not  dreadfully  ruined  the 
hope  of  his  soul  ?  If  preparation  be  necessary,  has  he  not 
refused  his  happiness,  by  refusing  to  be  prepared  ?  Does 
not  reason  take  up  the  language  of  scripture,  and  repeat, 
with  earnest  conviction,  A  drunkard  cannot  inherit  the  king' 
dom  of  God  ? 


LESSON    XIII. 

The  Worm. — J.  RUSSELL. 
"'Outvenoms  all  the  worms  of  Nile." — Shcikspeare. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  rattle-snake   or  copperhead  ? 
An  unexpected  sight  of  either  of  these  reptiles  will  make 


30  NATIONAL  READER. 

even  the  lords  of  creation  recoil :  but  there  is  a  species  of 
worm,  found  in  various  parts  of  this  state,  which  conveys  a 
poison  of  a  nature  so  deadly,  that,  compared  with  it,  even 
the  venom  of  the  rattle-snake  is  harmless.  To  guard  our 
readers  against  this  foe  of  human  kind,  is  the  object  of  this 
communication. 

This  worm  varies  much  in  size.  It  is  frequently  an  nch 
through,  but,  as  it  is  rarely  seen,  except  when  coiled,  its 
length  can  hardly  be  conjectured.  It  is  of  a  dull  lead  colour, 
and  generally  lives  near  a  spring  or  small  stream  of  water, 
and  bites  the  unfortunate  people,  who  are  in  the  habit  of 

fnng  there  to  drink.  The  brute  creation  it  never  molests, 
hey  avoid  it  with  the  same  instinct  that  teaches  the  ani- 
mals of  Peru  to  shun  the  deadly  coya. 

Several  of  these  reptiles  have  long  infested  our  settle- 
ments, to  the  misery  and  destruction  of  many  of  our  fellow 
citizens.  I  have,  therefore,  had  frequent  opportunities  of 
being  the  mela  *choly  spectator  of  the  effects  produced  by 
the  subtle  poison  which  this  worm  infuses. 

The  symptoms  of  its  bite  are  terrible.  The  eyes  of  the 
patient  become  red  and  fiery,  his  tongue  swells  to  an  immo- 
derate size,  and  obstructs  his  utterance  ;  and  delirium,  of  the 
most  horrid  character,  quickly  follows.  Sometimes,  in  his 
madness,  he  attempts  the  destruction  of  his  nearest  friends. 

If  the  sufferer  has  a  family,  his  weeping  wife  and  helpless 
infants  are  not  unfrequently  the  objects  of  his  frantic  fury. 
In  a  word,  he  exhibits,  to  the  life,  all  the  detestable  passions 
that  rankle  in  the  bosom  of  a  savage  ;  and,  such  is  the  spell 
in  which  his  senses  are  locked,  that,  no  sooner  has  the 
unhappy  patient  recovered  from  the  paroxysm  of  insanity, 
occasioned  by  the  bite,  than  he  seeks  out  the  destroyer,  for 
the  sole  purpose  of  being  bitten  again. 

I  have  seen  a  good  old  father,  his  locks  as  white  as  snow, 
his  steps  slow  and  trembling,  beg  in  vain  of  his  only  son  to 
quit  the  lurking  place  of  the  worm.  My  b$&rt  bled  when 
he  turned  away ;  for  I  knew  the  fond  hope,  that  his  son 
would  be  the  "  staff  of  his  declining  years,"  had  supported 
him  through  many  a  sorrow. 

Youtbs  of  Missouri,  would  you  know  the  name  of  this 
reptile?  It  is  called  the  Worm  of  the  Still. 


NATIONAL  READER.  81 

LESSON  XIV. 

Debt  and  Credit. — EMPORIUM,  Trenton. 

I  DISLIKE  the  whole  matter  of  debt  and  credit — from  my 
heart  I  dislike  it ;  and  think  the  man,  who  first  invented  a 
leger,  should  be  hung  in  effigy,  with  his  invention  tied  to 
his  feet,  that  his  neck  might  support  him  and  his  works 
together.  My  reason  for  thus  sweeping  at  the  whole  system 
is,  not  that  I  believe  it  totally  useless,  but  that  I  believe  it 
does  more  mischief  than  good,  produces  more  trouble  than 
accommodation,  and  destroys  more  fortunes  than  it  creates 
honestly. 

These  opinions  are  not  of  a  recent  date  with  me :  they 
are  those  upon  which  I  set  out  in  early  life,  and,  as  I  grew 
older,  I  became  more  and  more  confirmed  in  them :  not  that 
I  changed  my  practice,  while  I  held  fast  my  profession,  and 
got  my  fingers  burned  at  last,  by  trusting  my  name  in  a 
day-book ;  for  I  never  did  it,  because  I  saw  the  evil  effects 
of  credit  around  me,  in  every  shape  and  form. 

A  visit,  this  morning,  to  my  old  friend,  Timothy  Coulter, 
called  the  subject  up  so  forcibly,  that  I  concluded  to  write 
you  a  line  upon  it.  His  last  cow  was  sold  this  very  morn- 
ing, by  the  constable,  for  six  dollars,  though  she  cost  him 
sixteen ;  and  they  have  not  left  an  ear  of  corn  in  his  crib, 
or  a  bushel  of  rye  in  his  barn,  much  less  any  of  his  stock : 
It  was  what  was  called  the  winding  up  of  the  concern  ;  and 
he  is  now  on  his  good  behaviour ;  for  I  heard  one  of  his 
creditors  say,  that,  if  he  did  not  go  on  very  straight,  he 
would  walk  him  off  to  the  county  prison-ship.  Thus  has 
ended  Timothy's  game  of  debt  and  credit. 

When  he  first  commenced  farming,  he  was  as  industrious 
and  promising  a  young  man  as  was  to  be  found  ;  he  worked 
day  and  night,  counted  the  cost,  and  pondered  on  the  pur- 
chase of  every  thing.  For  a  year  or  two,  he  kept  out  of 
debt,  lived  comfortably  and  happy,  and  made  money :  every 
merchant,  that  knew  him,  was  ready  to  make  a  polite  bow : 
each  knew  him  as  one  of  your  cash  men,  and  liked  his 
custom.  The  mechanic  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  begged 
hie  company  to  dinner,  hoping  to  get  a  job  from  him;  and 
even  the  lawyer,  in  contemplation  of  his  high  character, 
lipped  his  beaver  as  he  passed  him,  with  a  sigh,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Tim,  you  have  more  sense  than  half  the  world* * 
hut  that's  no  consolation  to  us." 


32  NATIONAL  READER. 

By  some  fatality,  Timothy  found  out,  however,  that  there 
was  such  a  thing  as  credit.  He  began  soon  to  have  many 
running  accounts,  and  seldom  paid  for  what  he  got ;  it  soon 
followed,  that  the  inquiry,  "  Do  I  really  want  this  article  ?" 
before  he  bought  it,  was  neglected ;  then  the  price  was  fre- 
quently not  asked ;  then  he  began  to  be  careless  about  pay- 
day ;  his  accounts  stood,  he  disputed  them  when  rendered, 
was  sued,  charged  with  costs,  and,  perhaps,  slyly,  with 
interest  too ;  and  he  became  a  money-borrower  before  long ; 
but  his  friends,  after  a  lawsuit  had  brought  them  their 
money,  \vere  ready  to  trust  him  again,  and  he  was  as  ready- 
to  buy.  The  same  farce  was  played  over  and  over,  until 
now  the  end  of  these  things  has  come ;  and,  poor  fellow,  he 
is  turned  out  upon  the  wide  world,  without  a  friend,  save  a 
wife  and  six  miserable  babes. 

I  asked  the  constable  for  a  sight  of  the  execution,  and  he 
shoAved  it  to  me.  It  \vas  issued  by  young  'squire  Bell,  and 
I  could  not  but  recollect  how  different  was  the  history  of 
this  man  from  that  of  Timothy.  Young  Bell  was  a  poor 
boy,  and  commenced  his  life  with  nothing  but  health  and 
trade  ;  but  he  adopted,  as  a  sacred  maxim,  "  Pay  as  you  go  ;" 
and  he  frequently  told  me,  he  found  little  difficulty  in  stick- 
ing to  his  text. 

The  necessaries  of  life  are  few,  and  industry  secures 
them  to  every  man :  it  is  the  elegancies  of  life  that  empty 
the  purse :  the  knick-knacks  of  fashion,  the  gratification  of 
pride,  and  the  indulgence  of  luxury,  make  a  man  poor.  To 
guard  against  these,  some  resolution  is  necessary ;  and  the 
resolution,  once  formed,  is  much  strengthened  and  guarded 
by  the  habit  of  paying  for  every  article  we  buy,  at  the  time. 
If  we  do  so,  we  shall  seldom  purchase  what  our  circumstan* 
ces  will  not  afford. 

This  was  exactly  the  manner  in  which  Jack  Bell  pro- 
ceeded. Habit,  strengthened  by  long  continuance,  and 
supported  by  reason,  became  second  nature.  His  business 
prospered  ;  his  old  purse  became  filled  with  Spanish  dollars ; 
all  his  purchases,  being  made  for  cash,  were  favourable  ;  and, 
by  always  knowing  how  he  stood  with  the  world,  he  avoided 
all  derangement  in  his  affairs.  He  is  now  the  'squire  of  a 
little  village,  with  a  good  property,  a  profitable  business,  and 
the  respect  of  all  who  know  him. 

Young  reader,  who  hast  not  entered  on  the  stage  of  busi- 
ness, when  you  come  forward  in  the  world,  go  and  do  like- 
.wjse,  and  you  shall  have  like  reward. 


NATIONAL  READER.  33 

LESSON  XV. 

The  Indians. — NATIONAL  REPUBLICAN,  Cincinnati. 

THERE  are  many  traits  of  the  Indian  character  highly 
interesting  to  the  philosopher  and  Christian.  Their  uncon- 
querable attachment  to  their  pristine  modes  and  habits  of 
life,  which  counteracts  every  effort  towards  civilization,  fur- 
nishes to  the  philosopher  a  problem  too  profound  for  solution. 
Their  simple  and  unadorned  religion,  the  same  in  all  ages, 
and  free  from  the  disguise  of  hypocrisy,  which  they  nave 
received,  by  tradition,  from  their  ancestors,  leads  the  mind 
to  a  conclusion,  that  they  possess  an  unwritten  revelation 
from  God,  intended  for  their  benefit,  which  ought  to  induce 
us  to  pause  before  we  undertake  to  convert  them  to  a  more 
refined  and  less  explicit  faith. 

The  religion  of  the  Indian  appears  to  be  fitted  for  that 
state  and  condition,  in  which  his  Maker  has  been  pleased  to 
place  him.  He  believes  in  one  Supreme  Being — with  all 
the  mighty  attributes  which  we  ascribe  to  God — whom  he 
denominates  the  Great  and  Good  Spirit,  and  worships  in  a 
devout  manner,  and  from  whom  he  invokes  blessings  on 
himself  and  friends,  and  curses  on  his  enemies. 

Our  Maker  has  left  none  of  his  intelligent  creatures  with- 
out a  witness  of  himself.  Long  before  the  human  mind  is 
capable  of  a  course  of  metaphysical  reasoning  upon  the 
connexion  which  exists  between  cause  and  effect,  a  sense  of 
Deity  is  inscribed  upon  it.  It  is  a  revelation  which  the 
Deity  has  made  of  himself  to  man,  and  which  becomes 
more  clear  and  intelligible,  according  to  the  manner  and 
degree  in  which  it  is  improved.  In  the  Indian,  whose  mind 
has  never  been  illumined  by  the  light  of  science,  it  appears 
weak  and  obscure. 

Those  moral  and  political  improvements,  which  are  the 
pride  and  boast  of  man  in  polished  society,  and  which  result 
from  mental  accomplishments,  the  savage  views  with  a  jea- 
lous sense  of  conscious  inferiority.  Neither  his  reason,  nor 
his  invention,  appears  to  have  been  exercised  for  the  high 
and  noble  purposes  of  human  excellence ;  and,  while  he 
pertinaciously  adheres  to  traditional  prejudices  and  passions, 
he  improves  upon  those  ideas  only,  which  he  has  received 
through  the  senses. 

Unaided  by  any  other  light  than  that  which  he  has  re- 


34  NATIONAL  READER. 

ceived  from  the  Father  of  lights,  the  Indian  penetrates  the 
dark  curtain,  which  separates  time  and  eternity,  and  believes 
in  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  the  resurrection  of  the 
body,  not  only  of  all  mankind,  but  of  all  animated  nature, 
and  a  state  of  future  existence,  of  endless  duration.  It  is, 
therefore,  their  general  custom  to  bury,  with  the  dead,  their 
bows,  arrows,  and  spears,  that  they  may  be  prepared  to  com- 
mence their  course  in  another  state. 

Man  is  seldom  degraded  so  low,  but  that  he  hopes,  and 
believes,  that  death  will  not  prove  the  extinction  of  his  being. 
Is  this  a  sentiment  resulting  from  our  fears  or  our  passions  ? 
Or,  rather,  is  it  riot  the  inspiration  of  the  Almighty,  which 
gives  us  this  understanding,  and  which  has  been  imparted  to 
all  the  children  of  men  ?  A  firm  belief  in  the  immortality 
of  the  soul,  with  a  devout  sense  of  the  general  superintending 
power,  essentially  supreme,  constitutes  the  fundamental  arti- 
cle of  the  Indian's  faith. 

His  reason,  though  never  employed  in  high  intellectual 
attainments  and  exertions,  is  less  corrupted  and  perverted 
while  he  roams  in  his  native  forests  than  in  an  unrestricted 
intercourse  with  civilized  man.  ^  ^  ^  He  beholds,  in 
the  rising  sun,  the  manifestation  of  divine  goodness,  and 
pursues  the  chase  with  a  fearless  and  unshaken  confidence 
in  the  protection  of  that  great  and  good  Spirit,  whose  watch- 
ful care  is  over  all  his  works. 

Let  us  not,  then,  attribute  his  views  of  an  omniscient  and 
omnipresent  Being  to  the  effect  of  a  sullen  pride  of  inde- 
pendence, and  his  moral  sense  of  right  and  wrong  to  a  heart- 
less insensibility.  Deprived,  by  the  peculiarities  of  his 
situation,  of  those  offices  of  kindness  and  tenderness,  which 
soften  the  heart,  and  sweeten  the  intercourse  of  life,  in  a 
civilized  state,  we  should  consider  him  a  being  doomed  to 
suffer  the  evils  of  the  strongest  and  most  vigorous  passions, 
without  the  consolation  of  those  divine  and  human  virtues, 
which  dissipate  our  cares,  and  alleviate  our  sorrows. 

It  is  now  two  hundred  years  since  attempts  have  been 
made,  and  unceasingly  persevered  in,  by  the  pious  and 
benevolent,  to  civilize,  and  Christianize,  the  North  American 
savage,  until  millions  of  those  unfortunate  beings,  including 
many  entire  tribes,  have  become  extinct.  The  few,  who 
remain  within  the  precincts  of  civilized  society,  stand  as 
human  monuments  of  Gothic  grandeur,  fearful  and  tremu- 
lous amidst  the  revolutions  of  time. 

Neither  the  pride  of  rank,  the  allurements  of  honours, 


NATIONAL  READER.  35 

nor  the  hopes  of  distinction,  can  afford  to  the  Indian  a  ray 
of  comfort,  or  the  prospect  of  better  days.  He  contemplates 
the  past  as  the  returnless  seasons  of  happiness  and  joy,  and 
rushes  to  the  wilderness  as  a  refuge  from  the  blandishments 
of  art,  and  the  pomp  and  show  of  polished  society,  to  seek, 
in  his  native  solitudes,  the  cheerless  gloom  of  ruin  and 
desolation. 


LESSON  XVI. 

Story  and  Speech  of  Logan.— JEFFERSON. 

THE  principles  of  society,  among  the  American  Indians, 
forbidding  all  compulsion,  they  are  to  be  led  to  duty,  and  to 
enterprise,  by  personal  influence  and  persuasion.  Hence, 
eloquence  in  council,  bravery  and  address  in  war,  become  the 
foundations  of  all  consequence  with  them.  To  these  ac- 
quirements all  their  faculties  are  directed.  Of  their  bravery 
and  address  in  war,  we  have  multiplied  proofs,  because  we 
have  been  the  subjects  on  which  they  were  exercised. 

Of  their  eminence  in  oratory,  we  have  fewer  examples, 
because  it  is  displayed,  chiefly,  in  their  own  councils. 
Some,  however,  we  have  of  very  superior  lustre.  I  may 
challenge  the  whole  orations  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero 
and  of  any  more  eminent  orator, — if  Europe  has  furnish- 
ed more  eminent, — to  produce  a  single  passage,  superior  to 
the  speech  of  Logan,  a  Mingo  chief,  to  Lord  Dunmore,  when 
governor  of  Virginia.  And,  as  a  testimony  of  their  talents 
in  this  line,  I  beg  leave  to  introduce  it,  first  stating  the  inci- 
.  dents  necessary  for  understanding  it. 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1774,  a  robbery  was  committed 
by  some  Indians  on  certain  land  adventurers  on  the  rivel 
Ohio.  The  whites,  in  that  quarter,  according  to  their  cus- 
tom, undertook  to  punish  this  outrage  in  a  summary  way. 
Captain  Michael  Cresap,  and  a  certain  Daniel  Greathouse, 
leading  on  these  parties,  surprised,  at  different  times,  travel- 
ling and  hunting  parties  of  the  Indians,  having  their  women 
and  children  with  them,  and  murdered  many.  Among 
these  were,  unfortunately,  the  family  of  Logan,  a  chief, 
celebrated  in  peace  and  war,  and  long  distinguished  as  the 
friend  of  the  whites. 


M  NATIONAL  READER. 

This  unworthy  return  provoked  his  vengeance.  He  ac- 
cordingly signalized  himself  in  the  war  which  ensued.  In 
the  autumn  of  the  same  year,  a  decisive  battle  was  fought  at 
the  mouth  of  the  Great  Kenhaway,  between  the  collected 
forces  of  the  Shawanese,  Mingoes,  and  Delawares,  and  a 
detachment  of  the  Virginia  militia.  The  Indians  were  de- 
feated, and  sued  for  peace.  Logan,  however,  disdained  to 
be  seen  among  the  suppliants.  But,  lest  the  sincerity  of  a 
treaty  should  be  distrusted,  from  which  so  distinguished  a 
chief  absented  himself,  he  sent,  by  a  messenger,  the  follow- 
ing speech,  to  be  delivered  to  lord  Dunmore. 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  to  say,  if  ever  he  entered 
Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and  he  gave  him  not  meat :  if  ever 
he  came  cold  and  naked,  and  he  clothed  him  not.  During 
the  course  of  the  last  long  and  bloody  war,  Logan  remained 
idle  in  his  cabin,  an  advocate  for  peace.  Such  was  my  love 
for  the  whites,  that  my  countrymen  pointed  as  they  passed, 
and  said,  'Logan  is  the  friend  of  white  men.'  I  had 
even  thought  to  have  lived  with  you,  but  for  the  injuries  of 
one  man.  Colonel  Cresap,  the  last  spring,  in  cold  blood, 
and  unprovoked,  murdered  all  the  relations  of  Logan,  not 
even  sparing  my  women  and  children.  There  runs  not  a 
drop  of  my  blood  in  the  veins  of  any  living  creature.  This 
called  on  me  for  revenge.  I  have  sought  it :  I  have  killed 
many  :  I  have  fully  glutted  my  vengeance.  For  my  coun- 
try, I  rejoice  at  the  beams  of  peace :  but  do  not  harbour  a 
thought  that  mine  is  the  joy  of  fear.  Logan  never  felt  fear. 
He  will  not  turn  on  his  heel  to  save  his  life.  Who  is  there 
to  mourn  for  Logan  ? — Not  one." 


LESSON  XVII. 

Geehale — An  Indian  Lament. — STATESMAN,  JY.  York. 

THE  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore 
As  sweetly  and  gaily  as  ever  before ; 
For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he,  at  pleasure,  can  hie, 
And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 
The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright, 
And  reflects  o'er  our  mountains  as  beamy  a  light, 
As  it  ever  reflected,  or  ever  expressed, 
When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams  were  the  best 


NATIONAL  READER.  37 

The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the  night, 

Ketire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 

And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowless  track, 

For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting  them  back. 

Each  bird,  and  each  beast,  it  is  blest  in  degree  : 

All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy,  but  me. 

I  will  go  to  my  tent,  and  lie  down  in  despair ; 
f  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my  hair ; 
I  will  sit  on  the  shore,  where  the  hurricane  blows, 
And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 
I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 
For  my  kindred  are  gone  to  the  hills  of  the  dead ; 
But  they  died  not  by  hunger,  or  lingering  decay ; 
The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them  away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  T  so  sacredly  wore, 
I  will  toss,  with  disdain,  to  the  storm-beaten  shore  ; 
Its  charms  I  no  longer  obey,  or  invoke ; 
Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 
I  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  source  of  the  light; 
I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  bluebird  at  night ; 
I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  leaves, 
And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that  grieves ; 
And  will  take  a  new  Manito — such  as  shall  seem 
To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream. 

Oh !  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 
And  tears  shall  no  longer  gu.sh  salt  from  my  eyes ; 
I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-coloured  stain, 
Red — red  shall,  alone,  on  my  visage  remain  ! 
I  will  dig  up  rny  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow ; 
By  night,  and  by  day,  I  will  follow  the  foe  ; 
Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor  snows  ;-- 
His  blood  can,  alone,  give  my  spirit  repose. 

They  came  to  my  cabin,  when  heaven  was  black : 
I  heard  not  their  coming,  I  knew  not  their  track ; 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees, 
They  were  people  engendered  beyond  the  big  seas  : 
My  wife,  and  my  children, — oh  spare  me  the  tale!— 
For  ^ho  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  GEEHALE  ! 


38  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  XVIII. 

Fall  of  Tecumseh.— STATESMAN,  IV.  York. 

WHAT  heavy-hoofed  coursers  the  wilderness  roam, 
To  the  war-blast  indignantly  tramping  ? 

Their  mouths  are  all  white,  as  if  frosted  with  foam, 
The  steel  bit  impatiently  champing. 

'Tis  the  hand  of  the  mighty  that  grasps  the  rein, 

Conducting  the  free  and  the  fearless. 
Ah  !  see  them  rush  forward,  with  wild  disdain, 

Through  paths  unfrequented  and  cheerless. 

From  the  mountains  had  echoed  the  charge  of  death, 

Announcing  that  chivalrous'-^  sally  ; 
The  savage  was  heard,  with  untrernbling  breath, 

To  pour  his  response  from  the  valley. 

One  moment,  and  nought  but  the  bugle  was  heard, 

And  nought  but  the  war-whoop  given ; 
The  next — and  the  sky  seemed  convulsively  stirred 

As  if  by  the  lightning  riven. 

» 
The  din  of  the  steed,  and  the  sabred  strode, 

The  blood-stifled  gasp  of  the  dying. 
Were  screened  by  the  curling  sulphur-smoke, 

That  upward  went  wildly  flying. 

In  the  mist  that  hung  over  the  field  of  blood, 
The  chief  of  the  horsemen  contended  ; 

His  rowels  were  bathed  in  the  purple  flood, 
That  fast  from  his  charger  descended. 

That  steed  reeled,  and  fell,  in  the  van  of  the  fight, 
But  the  rider  repressed  riot  his  daring, 

Till  met  by  a  savage,  whose  rank,  and  might, 
Were  shown  by  the  plume  he  was  wearing. 

The  moment  was  fearful ;  a  mightier  foe 
Had  ne'er  swung  the  battle-axe  o'er  him ; 

But  hope  nerved  his  arm  for  a  desperate  blow, 
And  Tecumseh  fell  prostrate  before  him. 
*  c/i  as  in  church. 


NATIONAL  READER.  39 

O  ne'er  may  the  nations  again  be  cursed 

With  conflict  so  dark  and  appalling ! — 
Foe  grappled  with  foe,  till  the  life-blood  burst 

From  their  agonized  bosoms  in  falling. 

Gloom,  silence,  and  solitude,  rest  on  the  spot, 
Where  the  hopes  of  the  red  man  perished ; 

But  the  fame  of  the  hero  who  fell  shall  not, 
By  the  virtuous,  cease  to  be  cherished. 

He  fought,  in  defence  of  his  kindred  and  king, 

With  a  spirit  most  loving  and  loyal, 
And  long  shall  the  Indian  warrior  sing 

The  deeds  of  Tecumseh,  the  royal. 

The  lightning  of  intellect  flashed  from  his  eye, 

In  his  arm  slept  the  force  of  the  thunder, 
But  the  bolt  passed  the  suppliant  harmlessly  by, 

And  left  the  freed  captive  to  wonder.^ 

Above,  near  the  path  of  the  pilgrim,  he  sleeps, 

With  a  rudely-built  tumulus  o'er  him; 
And  the  bright-bosomed  Tham.es,  in  its  majesty,  sweeps 

By  the  mound  where  his  followers  bore  him. 


LESSON  XIX. 

Monument  Mountain. — B R YANT. 

THOU,  who  would'st  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled,  in  harmony,  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.     Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for,  on  their  fops, 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  arid  toilsome  way.     There,  as  thou  stand'st, 
The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and.  above, 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world, 

*  This  highly  intellectual  savage,  appropriately  styled  "king  of  the 
woods*'  was  no  less  distinguished  for  Ins  acts  of  humanity  than  heroism. 
He  fell  in  the  bloody  charge  at  Moravian  town,  during  the  war  of  1812-15. 


40  NATIONAL  READER. 

To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 

The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.     Thou  shalt  look 

Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 

And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens 

And  streams,  that,  with  their  bordering  thickets,  strive 

To  hide  their  windings.     Thou  shalt  gaze,  at  oncev 

Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 

And  swarming  roads ;  and,  there,  on  solitudes, 

That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 

And  eagle's  shriek There  is  a  precipice, 

That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 

Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 

To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 

When  the  flood  drowned  them.     To  the  north,  a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 

Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 

With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 

And  many  a  hanging  crag.     But,  to  the  east, 

Sheer  to  the  vale,  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, — 

Huge  pillars,  that,  in  middle  heaven,  upbear 

Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 

With  the  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 

Of  chalky  whiteness,  where  the  thunderbolt 

Has  splintered  them.     It  is  a  fearful  thing 

To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 

Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  g?ay  wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and,  at  the  base, 

Dashed  them  in  fragments ;  and  to  lay  thine  ear 

Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 

Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.     But  the  scene 

Is  lovely  round.     A  beautiful  river  there 

Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 

The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 

Mining  the  soil  for  ages.     On  each  side 

The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills  ;   beyond, 

Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 

The  mighty  columns  with  which  earth  props  heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  gray  old  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love 
Arid  sorrows  borne  .and. -ended,  long  ago, 
When,  over  these  fair  vales,  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.     There  was  a  maid, 


NATIONAL  READER.  41 

The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 

With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 

And  a  gay  heart.     About  her  cabin  door 

The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 

And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 

She  loved  her  cousin ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 

By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 

Unlawful,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 

Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 

As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.     In  vain. 

Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 

Its  lightness,  and  the  gray  old  men,  that  passed 

Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no  more 

The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose  looks 

Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 

Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.     She  went 

To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 

When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 

And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 

Nor  when  they  gathered,  from  the  rustling  husk, 

The  shining  ear ;  nor  w^hen,  by  the  river  side, 

They  pulled  the  grape,  and  startled  the  wild  shades 

With  sounds  of  mirth.     The  keen-eyed  Indian  dames 
Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 

Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  The  girl  will  die. 
Onetlay,  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 

A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 

She  poured  her  griefs.     "  Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone, 

She  said,  "  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 

And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 

All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 

Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 

That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.     I  hate 

The  pastimes,  and  the  pleasant  toils,  that  once 

I  loved ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 

Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 

In  dreams,  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 

Calls  me,  and  chides  me.     All  that  look  on  me 

Do  seem  to  know  my  shame  ;  I  cannot  bear 

Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 

The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die." 
It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 

To  this  old  precipice.     About  the  cliffs 

Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  skins  of  woif 
4* 


42  NATIONAL  READER. 

And  shaggy  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 

Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit ;  for  they  deemed, 

Like  worshippers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 

Doth  walk  on  the  high  places,  and  affect 

The  earth-o'erlooking  mountains.     She  had  on 

The  ornaments,  with  which  the  father  loved 

To  deck  the  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 

And  bade^  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors  came 

To  be  his  guests.     Here  the  friends  sat  them  down. 

And  sung,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 

And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with  flowers, 

And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her  way 

To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 

Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 

Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 

Below  her  ; — waters,  resting  in  the  embrace 

Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades, 

Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 

She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and,  at  the  sight 

Of  her  own  village,  peeping  through  the  trees, 

And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 

Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 

And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 

Ran  from  her  eyes.     But,  when  the  sun  grew  low, 

And  the  hill-shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 

From  the  steep  rock,  and  perished.     There  was  scooped, 

Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave ; 

And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 

With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 

With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her  hair. 

And,  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 

Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 

Of  small  loose  stones.     Thenceforward,  all  who  passed, 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone, 

In  silence,  on  the  pile.     It  stands  there  yet. 

And  Indians,  from  the  distant  west,  that  come 

To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 

Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and,  to  this  day, 

The  mountain,  where  the  hapless  maiden  died, 

Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 

*  Prcn.  bad. 


NATIONAL  READER.  43 


LESSON   XX. 

Grandeur  and  moral  interest  of  American  Antiquities. — 
T.  FLINT. 

You  will  expect  me  to  say  something  of  the  lonely  records 
of  the  former  races  that  inhabited  this  country.  That  there 
has,  formerly,  been  a  much  more  numerous  population  than 
exists  here  at  present,  I  am  fully  impressed,  from  the  result 
of  my  own  personal  observations.  From  the  highest  points 
of  the  Ohio,  to  where  I  am  now  writing,^  and  far  up  the 
upper  Mississippi  and  Missouri,  the  more  the  country  is 
explored  and  peopled,  and  the  more  its  surface  is  penetrated, 
not  only  are  there  more  mounds  brought  to  view,  but  more 
incontestable  marks  of  a  numerous  population. 

Wells,  artificially  walled,  different  structures  of  conve- 
nience or  defence,  have  been  found  in  such  numbers,  as  no 
longer  to  excite  curiosity.  Ornaments  of  silver  and  of  cop- 
per, pottery,  of  which  I  have  seen  numberless  specimens  on 
all  these  waters, — not  to  mention  the  mounds  themselves, 
and  the  still  more  tangible  evidence  of  human  bodies  found 
in  a  state  of  preservation,  and  of  sepulchres  full  of  bones, — 
are  unquestionable  demonstrations,  that  this  country  was 
once  possessed  of  a  numerous  population.  ^  ^  *  The 
mounds  themselves,  though  of  earth,  are  not  those  rude  and 
shapeless  heaps,  that  they  have  been  commonly  represented 
to  be.  I  have  seen,  for  instance,  in  different  parts  of  the 
Atlantic  country,  the  breast-works  and  other  defences  of  earth, 
that  were  thrown  up  by  our  people  during  the  war  of  the 
revolution.  None  of  those  monuments  date  back  more  than 
fifty  years.  These  mounds  must  date  back  to  remote  depths 
in  the  olden  time. 

From  the  ages  of  the  trees  on  them,  and  from  other  data, 
we  can  trace  them  back  six  hundred  years,  leaving  it  entirely 
to  the  imagination  to  descend  farther  into  the  depths  of  time 
beyond.  And  yet,  after  the  rains,  the  washing,  and  the 
crumbling  of  so  many  ages,  many  of  them  are  still  twenty- 
five  feet  high.  All  of  them  are,  incomparably,  more  con- 
spicuous monuments  than  the  works  which  I  just  noticed. 
Some  of  them  are  spread  over  an  extent  of  acres.  I  have 
seen,  great  and  small,  I  should  suppose,  a  hundred.  Though 

*  St.  Charles,  on  the  Missouri. 


44  NATIONAL  READER. 

diverse,  in  position  and  form,  they  all  have  an  uniform  cha- 
racter. 

They  are,  for  the  most  part,  in  rich  soils,  and  in  conspicu- 
ous situations.  Those  on  the  Ohio  are  covered  with  very 
large  trees.  But  in  the  prairie  regions,  where  I  have  seen 
the  greatest  numbers,  they  are  covered  with  tall  grass,  and 
generally  near  benches, — which  indicate  the  former  courses 
of  the  rivers, — in  the  finest  situations  for  present  culture  ;  and 
the  greatest  population  clearly  has  been  in  those  very  posi- 
tions, where  the  most  dense  future  population  will  be.  ^  ^  ^ 

The  English,  when  they  sneer  at  our  country,  speak  of  it 
as  stenl  m  moral  interest.  "  It  has,"  say  they,  "  no  monu- 
ments, no  ruins,  none  of  the  massive  remains  of  former  ages ; 
no  castles,  no  mouldering  abbeys,  no  baronial  towers  and 
dungeons ;  nothing  to  connect  the  imagination  and  the  heart 
with  the  past ;  no  recollections  of  former  ages,  to  associate 
the  past  with  the  future." 

But  I  have  been  attempting  sketches  of  the  largest  and 
most  fertile  valley  in  the  world,  larger,  in  fact,  than  half  of 
Europe,  all  its  remotest  points  being  brought  into  proximity 
by  a  stream,  which  runs  the  length  of  that  continent,  and  to 
which  all  but  two  or  three  of  the  rivers  of  Europe  are  but 
rivulets.  Its  forests  make  a  respectable  figure,  even  placed 
beside  Blenheim  park. 

We  have  lakes  which  could  find  a  place  for  the  Cumber- 
land lakes  in  the  hollow  of  one  of  their  islands.  We  have 
prairies,  which  have  struck  me  as  among  the  sublimest  pros- 
pects in  nature.  There  we  see  the  sun  rising  over  a  bound- 
less plain,  where  the  blue  of  the  heavens,  in  all  directions, 
touches  and  mingles  with  the  verdure  of  the  flowers.  It  is, 
to  me,  a  view  far  more  glorious  than  that  on  which  the  sun 
rises  over  a  barren  and  angry  waste  of  sea.  The  one  is  soft, 
cheerful,  associated  with  life,  and  requires  an  easier  effort  of 
the  imagination  to  travel  beyond  the  eye.  The  other  is 
grand,  but  dreary,  desolate,  and  always  ready  to  destroy. 

In  the  most  pleasing  positions  of  these  prairies,  we  have 
our  Indian  mounds,  which  proudly  rise  above  the  plain. 
At  first  the  eye  mistakes  them  for  hills  ;  but,  when  it  catches 
the  regularity  of  their  breast-works  and  ditches,  it  discovers, 
at  once,  that  they  are  the  labours  of  art  and  of  men. 

When  the  evidence  of  the  senses  convinces  us  that  human 
bones  moulder  in  these  masses ;  when  you  dig  about  them, 
and  bring  to  light  their  domestic  utensils  ;  and  are  compelled 
to  believe,  that  the  busy  tide  of  life  once  flowed,  here  : 


NATIONAL  READER.  45 

when  you  see,  at  once,  that  these  races  were  of  a  very 
different  character  from  the  present  generation, — you  begin 
to  inquire  if  any  tradition,  if  any,  the  faintest,  records  can 
throw  any  light  upon  these  habitations  of  men  of  another 
age. 

Is  there  no  scope,  beside  these  mounds,  for  imagination, 
and  for  contemplation  of  the  past  ?  The  men,  their  joys, 
their  sorrows,  their  bones,  are  all  buried  together.  But  the 
grand  features  of  nature  remain.  There  is  the  beautiful 
prairie,  over  which  they  "  strutted  through  life's  poor  play." 
The  forests,  the  hills,  the  mounds,  lift  their  heads  in  unal- 
terable repose,  and  furnish  the  same  sources  of  contemplation 
to  us,  that  they  did  to  those  generations  that  have  passed 
away. 

It  is  true,  we  have  little  reason  to  suppose,  that  they  were 
the  guilty  dens  of  petty  tyrants,  who  let  loose  their  half 
savage  vassals  to  burn,  plunder,  enslave,  and  despoil  an 
adjoining  den.  There  are  no  remains  of  the  vast  and  use- 
less monasteries,  whore  ignorant  and  lazy  monks  dreamed 
over  their  lusts,  or  meditated  their  vile  plans  of  acquisition 
and  imposture. 

Here  must  have  been  a  race  of  men,  on  these  charming 
plains,  that  had  every  call  from  the  scenes  that  surrounded 
them,  to  contented  existence  and  tranquil  meditation.  Un- 
fortunate, as  men  view  the  thing,  they  must  have  been. 
Innocent  and  peaceful  they  probably  were ;  for,  had  they 
been  reared  amidst  wars  and  quarrels,  like  the  present 
Indians,  they  would,  doubtless,  have  maintained  their  ground, 
and  their  posterity  would  have  remained  to  this  day.  Be- 
side them  moulder  the  huge  bones  of  their  contemporary 
beasts,  which  must  have  been  of  thrice  the  size  of  the 
elephant. 

I  cannot  judge  of  the  recollections  excited  by  castles  and 
towers  that  I  have  not  seen.  But  I  have  seen  all  of  gran- 
deur, which  our  cities  can  display.  I  have  seen,  too,  these 
lonely  tombs  of  the  desert, — seen  them  rise  from  these 
boundless  and  unpeopled  plains.  My  imagination  and  my 
heart  have  been  full  of  the  past.  The  nothingness  of  the 
brief  dream  of  human  life  has  forced  itself  upon  my  mind. 
The  unknown  race,  to  which  these  bones  belonged,  had,  I 
doubt  not,  as  many  projects  of  ambition,  and  hoped,  as  san- 
guinely,  to  have  their  names  survive,  as  the  great  ones  of 
the  present  day. 


46  NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON   XXI. 

On  the  Barrows,  or  Moniwncntcd  Mounds,  in  the  prairies  of 
the  Western  Rivers.  —  M.  FLINT. 

THE  sun's  last  rays  were  fading  from  the  west, 
The  deepening  shade  stole  slowly  o'er  the  plain, 

The  evening  breeze  had  lulled  itself  to  rest, 
And  all  was  silence,  —  save  the  mournful  strain 
With  which  the  widowed  turtle  wooed,  in  vain, 

Her  absent  lover  to  her  lonely  nest. 

Now,  one  by  one,  emerging  to  the  sight, 

The  brighter  stars  assumed  their  seats  on  high  , 

The  moon's  pale  crescent  glowed  serenely  bright, 
As  the  last  twilight  fled  along  the  sky, 
And  all  her  train,  in  cloudless  majesty, 

Were  glittering  on  the  dark  blue  vault  of  night. 

I  lingered,  by  some  soft  enchantment  bound, 
And  gazed,  enraptured,  on  the  lovely  scene  ; 

From  the  dark  summit  of  an  Indian  mound 
I  saw  the  plain,  outspread  in  living  green  ; 
Its  fringe  of  cliffs  was,  in  the  distance,  seen, 

And  the  dark  line  of  forests  sweeping  round. 

I  saw  the  lesser  mounds  which  round  me  rose  ; 

Each  was  a  giant  heap  of  mouldering  clay  ; 
There  slept  the  warriors,  women,  friends,  and  foes, 

There,  side  by  side,  the  rival  chieftains  lay  ; 

And  mighty  tribes,  swept  from  the  face  of  day, 
Forgot  their  wars,  and  found  a  long  repose. 

Ye  mouldering  relics  of  departed  years, 

Your  names  have  perished  ;  not  a  trace  remains, 

Save  where  the  grass-grown  mound  its  summit  rears 
From  the  green  bosom  of  your  native  plains. 
Say,  do  your  spirits  wear  oblivion's  chains  ? 

Did  death  forever  quench  your  hopes  and  fears  ? 


Or  did  those  fairy  hopes  of  future  bliss, 
Which  simple  nature  to  your  bosoms  gave, 


NATIONAL  READER.  47 

Find  other  worlds  with  fairer  skies,  than  this, 
Beyond  the  gloomy  portals  of  the  grave, 
In  whose  bright  climes  the  virtuous*5  and  the  brave 

Rest  from  their  toils,  and  all  their  cares  dismiss  ? — 

Where  the  great  hunter  still  pursues  the  chase, 
And,  o'er  the  sunny  mountains,  tracks  the  deer; 

Or  where  he  finds  each  long-extinguished  race, 
And  sees,  once  more,  the  mighty  mammoth  rear 
The  giant  form  which  lies  imbedded  here, 

Of  other  years  the  sole  remaining  trace. 

Or,  it  may  be,  that  still  ye  linger  near 

The  sleeping  ashes,  once  your  dearest  pride ; 

And,  could  your  forms  to  mortal  eye  appear, 
Or  the  dark  veil  of  death  be  thrown  aside, 
Then  might  I  see  your  restless  shadows  glide, 

With  watchful  care,  around  these  relics  dear. 

If  so,  forgive  the  rude,  unhallowed  feet 

Which  trod  so  thoughtless  o'er  your  mighty  dead. 

I  would  not  thus  profane  their  lone  retreat, 

Nor  trample  where  fhe  sleeping  warrior's  head 
Lay  pillowed  on  his  everlasting  bed, 

Age  after  age,  still  sunk  in  slumbers  sweet. 

Farewell !  and  may  you  still,  in  peace,  repose  ; 
Still  o'er  you  may  the  flowers,  untrodden,  bloom, 

And  softly  wave  to  every  breeze  that  blows, 
Casting  their  fragrance,  on  each  lonely  tomb, 
In  which  your  tribes  sleep  in  earth's  common  womb, 

And  mingle  with  the  clay  from  which  they  rose. 


LESSON   XXII. 
The  American  Indian,  as  he  ivas,  and  as  he  is. — C. 

NOT  many  generations  ago,  where  you  now  sit,  circled 
with  all  that  exalts  and  embellishes  civilized  life,  the  rank 
thistle  nodded  in  the  wind",  and  the  wild  fox  dug  his  hole 

*  Pron.  ver'-tshu-ous. 


48  NATIONAL   READER. 

unscared.  Here  lived  and  loved  another  race  of  beings. 
Beneath  the  same  sun  that  roils  over  your  heads,  the  Indian 
hunter  pursued  the  panting  deer :  gazing  on  the  same  moon 
that  smiles  for  you,  the  Indian  lover  wooed  his  dusky  mate. 

Here  the  wigwam  blaze  beamed  on  the  tender  and  help- 
less, the  council-fire  glared  on  the  wise  and  daring.  Now 
they  dipped  their  noble  limbs  in  your  sedgy  lakes,  and  now 
they  paddled  the  light  canoe^  along  your  rocky  shores. 
Here  they  warred  ;  the  echoing  whoop,  the  bloody  grapple, 
the  defying  death-song,  all  were  here ;  and,  when  the  tiger 
strife  was  over,  here  curled  the  smoke  of  peace. 

Here,  too,  they  worshipped ;  and  from  many  a  dark  bo- 
som went  up  a  pure  prayer  to  the  Great  Spirit.  He  had 
not  written  his  laws  for  them  on  tables  of  stone,  but  he  had 
traced  them  on  the  tables  of  their  hearts.  The  poor  child 
of  nature  knew  not  the  God  of  revelation,  but  the  God  of 
the  universe  he  acknowledged  in  every  thing  around. 

He  beheld  him  in  the  star  that  sunk  in  beauty  behind  his 
lonely  dwelling ;  in  the  sacred  orb  that  flamed  on  him  from 
his  mid-day  throne  ;  in  the  flower  that  snapped  in  the  morn- 
ing breeze ;  in  the  lofty  pine,  that  defied  a  thousand  whirl- 
winds ;  in  the  timid  warbler,  that  never  left  its  native  grove  ; 
in  the  fearless  eagle,  whose  untired  pinion  was  wet  in 
clouds ;  in  the  worm  that  crawled  at  his  foot ;  and  in  his 
own  matchless  form,  glowing  with  a  spark  of  that  light,  to 
whose  mysterious  Source  he  bent,  in  humble,  though  blind 
adoration. 

And  all  this  has  passed  away.  Across  the  ocean  came  a 
pilgrim  bark,  bearing  the  seeds  of  life  and  death.  The 
former  were  sown  for  you ;  the  latter  sprang  up  in  the  path 
of  the  simple  native.  Two  hundred  years  have  changed 
the  character  of  a  great  continent,  and  blotted,  forever,  from 
its  face  a  whole  peculiar  people.  Art  has  usurped  the  bow- 
ers of  nature,  and  the  anointed  children  of  education  have 
'been  too  powerful  for  the  tribes  of  the  ignorant. 

Here  and  there,  a  stricken  few  remain ;  but  hew  unlike 
rnp;r  Vir.i'V  untamed,  untameable  progenitors!  The  Indian, 
glance,  and  lion  bearing,  the  theme  of  the  touch- 
ing ballad,  the  hero  of  the  pathetic  tale,  is  gone!  and  his 
degraded  offspring  crawl  upon  the  soil  where  he  walked  in 
majesty,  to  remind  us  how  miserable  is  man,  when  the  foot 
of  the  conqueror  is  on  his  neck. 

*  Pron .  ca  -noo'.  t  Pron.  fawMm. 


NATIONAL  READER.  49 

As  a  race,  they  have  withered  from  the  land.  Their 
arrows  are  broken,  their  springs  are  dried  up,  their  cabins 
are  in  the  dust.  Their  council-fire  has  long  since  gone  out 
on  the  shore,  and  their  war-cry  is  fast  dying  to  the  untrod- 
den west.  Slowly  and  sadly  they  climb  the  distant  moun- 
tains, and  read  their  doom  in  the  setting  sun.  They  are 
shrinking  before  the  mighty  tide  which  is  pressing  them 
away ;  they  must  soon  hear  the  roar  of  the  last  wave,  which 
will  settle  over  them  forever. 

Ages  hence,  the  inquisitive  white  man,  as  he  stands  by 
some  growing  city,  will  ponder  on  the  structure  of  their 
disturbed  remains,  and  wonder  to  what  manner  of  person 
they  belonged.  They  will  live  only  in  the  songs  and  chro- 
nicles of  their  exterminators.  Let  these  be  faithful  to  their 
rude  virtues  as  men,  and  pay  due  tribute  to  their  unhappy 
fate  as  a  people. 


LESSON  XXIII. 

The  Grare  a  place  of  rest. — MACKENZIE. 

THE  grave  is  a  place  where  the  weary  are  at  rest.  How 
soothing  is  this  sentiment,  "  The  weary  are  at  rest !"  There 
is  something  in  the  expression  which  affects  the  heart  with 
uncommon  sensations,  and  produces  a  species  of  delight, 
where  tranquillity  is  the  principal  ingredient.  The  senti- 
ment itself  is  extensive,  and  .implies  many  particulars :  it 
implies,  not  only  that  we  are'  delivered  from  the  troubling  of 
the  wicked,  as  in  the  former  clause,  but  from  every  trouble 
and  every  pain,  to  which  life  is  subjected. 

Those,  only,  who  have  themselves  been  tried  in  affliction, 
can  feel  the  full  force  of  this  expression.  Others  may  be 
pleased  with  the  sentiment,  and  affected  by  sympathy.  The 
distressed  are,  at  once,  pleased  and  comforted.  To  be  de- 
livered from  trouble — to  be  relieved  from  power — to  see  op- 
pression humbled'^ — to  be  freed  from  care  and  pain,  from 
sickness  and  distress — to  lie  down  as  in  a  bed  of  security, 
in  a  long  oblivion  of  our  woes — to  sleep,  in  peace,  without 
the  fear  of  interruption — how  pleasing  is  the  prospect !  how 
full  of  consolation  i 

*  Pron.  um'-bPd. 


50  NATIONAL   READER 

The  ocean  may  roll  its  waves,  the  warring  winds  may 
join  their  forces,  the  thunders  may  shake  the  skies,^  and 
the  lightnings  pass,  swiftly,  from  cloud  to  clond :  but  not 
the  forces  of  the  elements,  combined,  not  the  sounds  of 
thunders,  nor  of  many  seas,  though  they  were  united  into 
one  peal,  and  directed  to  one  point,  can  shake  the  security 
of  the  tomb. 

The  dead  hear  nothing!  of  the  tumult ;  they  sleep  sound- 
ly ;  they  rest  from  their  calamities  upon  beds  of  peace.  Con- 
ducted to  silent  mansions,  they  cannot  be  troubled 'by  the 
rudest  assaults,  nor  awakened  by  the  loudest  clamour.  The 
unfortunate,  the  oppressed,  the  broken-hearted,  with  those 
that  have  languished  on  beds  of  sickness, rest  here  together: 
they  have  forgot  their  distresses ;  every  sorrow  is  hushed, 
and  every  pang  extinguished. 

Hence,  in  all  nations,  a  set  of  names  have  arisen  to  con- 
vey the  idea  of  death,  congenial  with  these  sentiments,  and 
all  of  them  expressive  of  supreme  felicity  and  consolation 
How  does  the  human  mind,  pressed  by  real  or  imaginec 
calamities,  delight  to  dwell  upon  that  awful  event  whicl 
leads  to  deliverance,  and  to  describe  and  solicit  it  with  the 
fairest  flowers  of  fancy ! 

It  is  called  the  harbour  of  rest,  in  whose  deep  bosom  the 
disastered  mariner,  who  had  long  sustained  the  assaults  of 
adverse  storms,  moors  his  wearied  vessel,  never  more  to 
return  to  the  tossings  of  the  wasteful  ocean.  It  is  called  the 
land  of  peace,  whither  the  friendless  exile  retires,  beyond 
the  reach  of  malice  and  injustice,  and  the  cruelest  arrows 
of  fortune.  It  is  called  the  hospitable  house,  where  the 
weather-beaten  traveller,  faint  with  traversing  pathless  de- 
serts, finds  a  welcome  and  secure  repose. 

There  no  cares  molest,  no  passions  distract,  no  enemies 
defame ;  there  agonizing  pain,  and  wounding  infamy,  and 
ruthless  revenge,  are  no  more  ;  but  profound  peace,  and 
calm  passions,  and  security  which  is  immoveable.  "  There 
the  wicked  cease  from  troubling ;  there  the  weary  are  at 
rest !  There  the  prisoners  rest  together  !  they  hear  not  the 
voice  of  the  oppressor !  The  small  and  the  great  are  there, 
and  the  servant  is  free  from  his  master  !" 

*  Pron.  skeiz.  t  Pron.  nuth-ing. 


NATIONAL  READER.  51 


LESSON  XXIV. 

On  the  custom  of  planting  flowers  on  the  graves  of  departed 
friends. — BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 

To  'scape  from  chill  misfortune's  gloom, 
From  helpless  age  and  joyless  years ; 

To  sleep  where  flowerets  round  us  bloom ; — 
Can  such  a  fate  deserve  our  tears  ? 

Since,  in  the  tomb,  our  cares,  our  woes, 

In  dark  oblivion  buried  lie, 
\Vhy  paint  that  scene  of  calm  repose 

In  figures  painful  to  the  eye  ? 

To  die  ! — what  is  in  death  to  fear  ? 

'Twill  decompose  my  lifeless  frame ! 
A.  Power,  unseen,  still  watches  near, 

To  light  it  with  a  purer  flame. 

And,  when  anew  that  flame  shall  burn, 
Perhaps  the  dust,  that  iios  enshrined, 

May  rise,  a  woodbine,  o'er  my  urn, 
With  verdant  tendrils  round  it  twined. 

How  would  the  gentle  bosom  beat, 
That  sighs  at  death's  resistless  power, 

A  faithful  friend  again  to  meet 

Fresh  blooming  in  a  fragrant  flower ! 

The  love,  that  in  my  bosom  glows, 
Will  live  when  I  shall  long  be  dead, 

And,  haply,  tinge  some  budding  rose 
That  blushes  o'er  my  grassy  bed. 

O,  thou  who  hast  so  long  been  dear, 
When  I  shall  cease  to  smile  on  thee, 

I  know  that  thou  wilt  linger  here, 
With  pensive  soul,  to  sigh  for  me^ 

Thy  gentle  hand  will  sweets  bestow, 
Transcending  Eden's  boasted  bloom  ; 

Each  flower  with  brighter  tini;s  shall  glow 
When  Love  and  Beauty  seek  my  tomb 


52  NATIONAL  READER. 

And,  when  the  rose-bud's  virgin  breath 
With  fragrance  fills  the  morning  air, 

Imagine  me  released  from  death, 
And  all  my  soul  reviving  there. 


LESSON  XXV. 

Thoughts  of  a  young  man  in  the  prospect  of  death.- 
HENRY  K.  WHITE. 

SAD,  solitary  Thought,  who  keep'st  thy  vigils, 
Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind. 
Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul, 
And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 
In  dim  obscurity  before  him, — thee, 
Wrapped  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 
At  this  still,  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 
When,  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 
I  turn  me,  wearisome.     While  all,  around, 
All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness, 
I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 
Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb. — Yes,  'tis  the  hand 
Of  death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 
Slow-sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 

My  moments  now  are  few. — The  sand  of  life 
Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish. — Yet  a  little, 
And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall, 
Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 
Come,  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate, 
While  meditate  we  may. — There's  left  us  now 
But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time, 
To  hold  communion  ;  for,  even  now,  the  knife, 
The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 
The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 
Yes,  I  must  die — I  feel  that  I  must  die  ; 
And  though,  to  me,  life  has  been  dark  and  dreary, 
Though  hope,  for  me,  has  smiled  but  to  deceive, 
And  disappointment  marked  me  as  her  victim, 
Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me, 
As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 
The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank — futurity. 


NATIONAL  READER. 

Ay,  I  had  planned  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 
Of  earthly  happiness — romantic  schemes, 
And  fraught  with  loveliness  : — and  it  is  hard 
To  feel  the  hand  of  death  arrest  one's  steps, 
Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes, 
And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 
Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 

Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 
O,  none :— another  busy  brood  of  beings 
Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 
Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink 
As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 
Of  busy  London : — some  short  bustle's  caused, 
A  few  inquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in, 
And  all's  forgotten.     On  my  grassy  grave 
The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread, 
And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 
Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears, 
Recall  my  vanished  memory.     I  did  hope 
For  better  things : — I  hoped  I  should  not  leave 
The  earth  without  a  vestige.     Fate  decrees 
It  shall  be  otherwise, — and  I  submit. 

Henceforth,  O  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires ! 
No  more  of  hope  ! — the  wanton,  vagrant  hope  ! 
I  abjure  all. — Now  other  cares  engross  me, 
And  my  tired  soul,  writh  emulative  haste, 
Looks  to  its  God,  and  plumes  its  wings  for  heaven. 


LESSON  XXVI. 

The  Grave. — BERNARD  BARTON. 

I  LOVE  to  muse,  wrhen  none  are  nigh, 
Where  yew  tree  branches  wave, 

And  hear  the  winds,  with  softest  sigh, 
Sweep  o'er  the  grassy  grave. 

It  seems  a  mournful  music,  meet 

To  soothe  a  lonely  hour ; 
Sad  though  it  be,  it  is  more  sweet 

Than  that  from  Pleasure's  bower. 
3* 


54  NATIONAL  READER. 

I  know  not  why  it  should  be  sad 

Or  seem  a  mournful  tone, 
Unless  by  man  the  spot  be  clad 

With  terrors  not  its  own. 

To  nature  it  seems  just  as  dear 
As  earth's  most  cheerful  site  ; 

The  dew-drops  glitter  there  as  clear, 
The  sun-beams  shine  as  bright. 

The  showers  descend  as  softly  there 

As  on  the  loveliest  flowers ; 
Nor  does  the  moon-light  seem  more  fair 

On  Beauty's  sweetest  bowers. 

"  Ay  !  but  within — within,  there  sleeps 
One,  o'er  whose  mouldering  clay 

The  loathsome  earth-worm  winds  and  creeps 
And  wastes  that  form  away." 

And  what  of  that  ?     The  frame  that  feeds 

The  reptile  tribe  below, 
As  little  of  their  banquet  heeds, 

As  of  the  winds  that  blow. 


LESSON  XXVII. 

The  Fall  of  the  Leaf.— MILONOV.* 

THE  autumnal  winds  had  stripped  the  field 

Of  all  its  foliage,  all  its  green ; 
The  winter's  harbinger  had  stilled 

That  soul  of  song  which  cheered  the  scene 

With  visage  pale,  and  tottering  gait, 
As  one  who  hears  his  parting  knell, 

I  saw  a  youth  disconsolate  : — 

He  came  to  breathe  his  last  farewell. 

**  Thou  grove  !  how  dark  thy  gloom  to  me  ! 
Thy  glories  riven  by  autumn's  breath  ! 

*  From  Bo  wring's  Russian  Anthology,  Vol.  II. 


NATIONAL  READER.  55 

In  every  falling  leaf  I  see 

A  threatening  messenger  of  death , 

"  O  JEsculapius  !^  in  my  ear 

Thy  melancholy  warnings  chime  : — 

Fond  youth  !  bethink  thee,  thou  art  here 
A  wanderer — for  the  last,  last  time. 

1  Thy  spring  will  winter's  gloom  o'ershade, 
Ere  yet  the  fields  are  white  with  snow ; 

Ere  yet  the  latest  flowerets  fade, 

Thou,  in  thy  grave,  wilt  sleep  below.' 

"  I  hear  the  hollow  murmuring — 

The  cold  wind  rolling  o'er  the  plain — 

Alas  !  the  brightest  days  of  spring 

How  swift !  how  sorrowful !  how  vain  ! 

"  O  wave,  ye  dancing  boughs,  0  wave  ! 

Perchance  to-morrow's  dawn  may  see 
My  mother,  weeping  on  my  grave  : — 

Then  consecrate  my  memory. 

"  I  see,  with  loose,  dishevelled -hair, 

Covering  her  snowy  bosom,  come 
The  angel  of  my  childhood  there, 

And  dew,  with  tears,  my  early  tomb. 

"  Then,  in  the  autumn's  silent  eve, 

With  fluttering  wing  and  gentlest  tread, 

My  spirit  its  calm  bed  shall  leave, 
And  hover  o'er  the  mourner's  head." 

Then  he  was  silent : — faint  and  slow 
His  steps  retraced : — he  came  no  more. 

The  last  leaf  trembled  on  the  bough, 
And  his  last  pang  of  life  was  o'er. 

Beneath  the  aged  oaks  he  sleeps  : — 

The  angel  of  his  childhood  there 
No  watch  around  his  tomb-stone  keeps, 

But,  when  the  evening  stars  appear, 

*  In  the  Greek  mythology,  the  cock  was  one  of  the  animals  consecrated  to 
^Esculapius,  the  god  of  medicine. 


NATIONAL  READER. 

The  woodman,  to  his  cottage  bound, 
Close  to  that  grave  is  wont  to  tread  j 

But  his  rude  footsteps,  echoed  round, 
Break  not  the  silence  of  the  dead. 


LESSON  XXVIII. 
Obedience  to  the  Commandme?its  of  God  rewarded. — MOODIE, 

THE  heathen,  unsupported  by  those  prospects  which  the 
Gospel  opens,  might  be  supposed  to  have  sunk  under  every 
trial ;  yet,  even  among  them,  was  sometimes  displayed  an 
exalted  virtue :  a  virtue,  which  no  interest,  no  danger,  could 
shake  :  a  virtue,  which  could  triumph  amidst  tortures  and 
death :  a  virtue,  which,  rather  than  forfeit  its  conscious  in- 
tegrity, could  be  content  to  resign  its  consciousness  forever. 
And  shall  not  the  Christian  blush  to  repine  ? — the  Christian, 
from  before  whom  the  veil  is  removed ;  to  whose  eyes  are 
revealed  the  glories  of  heaven  ? 

Your  indulgent  Ruler  do,th  not  call  you  to  run  in  vain,  or 
to  labour  in  vain.  Every  difficulty,  and  every  trial,  that 
occurs  in  your  path,  is  a  fresh  opportunity,  presented  by  his 
kindness,  of  improving  the  happiness,  after  which  he  hath 
taught  you  to  aspire.  By  every  hardship  which  you  sustain 
in  the  wilderness,  you  secure  an  additional  portion  of  the 
promised  land.  What  though  the  combat  be  severe  ?  A 
kingdom, — an  everlasting  kingdom, — is  the  prize  of  victory. 
Look  forward  to  the  triumph  which  awaits  you,  and  your 
courage  will  revive.  Fight  the  good  fight,  finish  your 
course,  keep  the  faith :  there  is  laid  up  for  you  a  crown  of 
righteousness,  which  the  Lord,  the  righteous  Judge,  shall 
give  unto  you  at  that  day. 

What  though,  in  the  navigation  of  life,  you  have  some- 
times to  encounter  the  war  of  elements  ?  What  though  the 
winds  rage,  though  the  waters  roar,  and  danger  threatens 
around?  Behold,  at  a  distance,  the  mountains  appear: 
your  friends  are  impatient  for  your  arrival :  already  the  feast 
is  prepared,  and  the  rage  of  the  storm  shall  serve  only  to 
waft  you  sooner  to  the  haven  of  rest.  No  tempests  assail 
those  blissful  regions  which  approach  to  view :  all  is  peace- 
ful and  serene  : — there  you  shall  enjoy  eternal  comfort;  and 
the  recollection  of  the  hardships  which  you  now  encountep 
sljall  heighten  the  felicity  of  bettor  days. 


NATIONAL  READER.  57 

LESSON  XXtX. 

The  Promises  of  Religion  to  the  Young. — ALISON. 

IN  every  part  of  Scripture,  it  is  remarkable  with  what 
singular  tenderness  the  season  of  youth  is  always  mention- 
ed, and  what  hopes  are  afforded  to  the  devotion  of  the 
young.  It  was  at  that  age  that,  God  appeared  unto  Moses, 
when  he  fed  his  flock  in  the  desert,  and  called  him  to  the 
command  of  his  own  people.  It  was  at  that  age  he  visited 
the  infant  Samuel,  while  he  ministered  in  the  temple  of  the 
Lord,  "  in  days  when  the  word  of  the  Lord  was  precious 
and  when  there  was  no  open  vision."  It  was  at  that  age 
that  his  spirit  fell  upon  David,  while  he  was  yet  the  youngest 
of  his  father's  sons,  and  when,  among  the  mountains  of  Beth- 
lehem, he  fed  his  father's  sheep.  It  was  at  that  age,  also, 
"  that  they  brought  young  children  unto  Christ,  that  he 
should  touch  them:  And  his  disciples  rebuked  those  that 
brought  them :  But  when  Jesus  saw  it,  he  was  much  dis- 
pleased, and  said  to  them,  Suffer  little  children  to  come 
unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 

If  these,  then,  are  the  effects  and  promises  of  youthful 
piety,  rejoice,  O  young  man,  in  thy  youth ! — rejoice  in  those 
days  which  are  never  to  return,  when  religion  comes  to  thee 
in  all  its  charms,  and  when  the  God  of  nature  reveals  him- 
self to  thy  soul,  like  the  mild  radiance  of  the  morning  sun, 
when  he  rises  amid  the  blessings  of  a  grateful  world. 

If,  already,  devotion  hath  taught  thee  her  secret  plea- 
sures ;  if,  when  nature  meets  thee  in  all  its  magnificence 
or  beauty,  thy  heart  humbleth  itself  in  adoration  before  the 
Hand  which  made  it,  and  rejoiceth  in  the  contemplation  of 
the  wisdom  by  which  it  is  maintained ;  if,  when  revelation 
unveils  her  mercies,  and  the  Son  of  God  comes  forth  to 
give  peace  and  hope  to  fallen  man,  thine  eye  follows,  with 
astonishment,  the  glories  of  his  path,  and  pours,  at  last,  over 
his  cross  those  pious  tears  which  it  is  a  delight  to  shed ;  if 
thy  soul  accompanieth  him  in  his  triumph  over  the  grave,  and 
entereth,  on  the  wings  of  faith,  into  that  heaven  "  where 
he  sat  down  at  the  right  hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high," 
arid  seeth  the  "  society  of  angels,  and  of  the  spirits  of  just 
men  made  perfect,"  and  listeneth  to  the  "  everlasting  song 
•which  is  sung  before  the  throne :" — if  such  are  the  medila- 


5  NATIONAL  READER. 

lions  in  which,  thy  youthful  hours  are  passed,  renounce  not, 
for  all  that  life  can  offer  thee  in  exchange,  these  solitary 
joys.  The  world  which  is  before  thee, — the  world  which 
thine  imagination  paints  in  such  brightness,— has  no  plea- 
sures to  bestow  which  can  compare  with  these :  and  all  that, 
its  boasted  wisdom  can  produce  has  nothing  so  acceptable 
in  the  sight  of  heaven,  as  this  pure  offering  of  thy  infant 
soul. 

In  these  days,  "  the  Lord  himself  is  thy  Shepherd,  and 
thou  dost  not  want.  Amid  the  green  pastures,  and  by  the 
still  waters"  of  youth,  he  now  makes  "  thy  soul  to  repose." 
But  the  years  draw  nigh,  when  life  shall  call  thee  to  its 
trials ;  the  evil  days  are  on  the  wing,  when  "  thou  shalt  say 
thou  hast  no  pleasure  in  them  ;"  and,  as  thy  steps  advance, 
"  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  opens,"  through  which 
thou  must  pass  at  last.  It  is  then  thou  shalt  know  what  it 
is  to  "remember  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth." 
In  these  days  of  trial  or  of  awe,  "  his  spirit  shall  be  with 
thee,"  and  thou  shalt  fear  no  ill;  and,  amid  every  evil 
which  surrounds  thee,  "  he  shall  restore  thy  soul.  His 
goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  thee  all  the  days  of  thy 
life ;"  and  when,  at  last,  "  the  silver  cord  is  loosed,"  thy 
spirit  shall  return  to  the  God  who  gave  it,  and  thou  shalt 
dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever. 


LESSON  XXX. 

On  the  Siviftness  of  Time. — DR.  JOHNSON. 

THE  natural  advantages,  which  arise  from  the  position  of 
the  earth  which  we  inhabit,  with  respect  to  the  other  pla- 
nets, afford  much  employment  to  mathematical  speculation, 
by  which  it  has  been  discovered,  that  no  other  conformation 
of  the  system  could  have  given  such  commodious  distribu- 
tions of  light  and  heat,  or  imparted  fertility  and  pleasure  to 
so  great  a  part  of  a  revolving  sphere. 

It  may  be,  perhaps,  observed  by  the  moralist,  with  equal 
reason,  that  our  globe  seems  particularly  fitted  for  the  resi- 
dence of  a  being,  placed  here  only  for  a  short  time,  whose 
task  is  to  advance  himself  to  a  higher  and  happier  state  of 
existence,  by  unrernitted  vigilance  of  caution  and  activity 
of  virtue. 


NATIONAL  READER.  5 

The  duties  required  of  man  are  such  as  human  nature 
does  not  willingly  perform,  and  such  as  those  are  inclined 
to  delay,  who  yet  intend,  some  time,  to  fulfil  them.  It  was, 
therefore,  necessary,  that  this  universal  reluctance  should  be 
counteracted,  and  the  drowsiness  of  hesitation  wakened  into 
resolve ;  that  the  danger  of  procrastination  should  be  always 
in  view,  and  the  fallacies  of  security  be  hourly  detected. 

To  this  end  ail  the  appearances  of  nature  uniformly  con- 
spire. Whatever  we  see,  on  every  side,  reminds  us  of  the 
lapse  of  time  and  the  flux  of  life.  The  day  and  night  suc- 
ceed each  other ;  the  rotation  of  seasons  diversifies  the  year ; 
the  sun  rises,  attains  the  meridian,  declines  and  sets ;  and 
the  moon,  every  night,  changes  its  form. 

The  day  has  been  considered  as  an  image  of  the  year, 
and  a  year  as  the  representation  of  life.  The  morning 
answers  to  the  spring,  and  the  spring  to  childhood  and 
youth.  The  noon  corresponds  to  the  summer,  and  the  sum- 
mer to  the  strength  of  manhood.  The  evening  is  an  em- 
blem of  autumn,  and  autumn  of  declining  life.  The  night, 
with  its  silence  and  darkness,  shows  the  winter,  in  which 
all  the  powers  of  vegetation  are  benumbed ;  and  the  winter 
points  out  the  time  when  life  shall  cease,  with  its  hopes  and 
pleasures. 

He  that  is  carried  forward,  howrever  swiftly,  by  a  motion 
equable  and  easy,  perceives  not  the  change  of  place  but  by 
the  variation  of  objects.  If  the  wheel  of  life,  which  rolls 
thus  silently  along,  passed  on  through  undistinguishable  uni- 
formity, we  should  never  mark  its  approaches  to  the  end  of 
the  course.  If  one  hour  were  like  another ;  if  the  passage  of 
the  sun  did  not  show  that  the  day  is  wasting ;  if  the  change 
of  seasons  did  not  impress  upon  us  the  flight  of  the  year, — 
quantities  of  duration,  equal  to  days  and  years,  would  glide 
unobserved.  If  the  parts  of  time  were  not  variously  coloured, 
we  should  never  discern  their  departure  or  succession;  but 
should  live,  thoughtless  of  the  past,  and  careless  of  the  fu- 
ture, without  will,  and,  perhaps,  without  power,  to  compute 
the  periods  of  life,  or  to  compare  the  time  which  is  already 
lost  with  that  which  may  probably  remain.  t 

But  the  course  of  time  is  so  visibly  marked,  that  it  is  even 
observed  by  the  passage,  and  by  nations  who  have  raised 
their  minds  very  little  above  animal  instinct :  there  are 
human  beings,  whose  language  does  not  supply  them  with 
words  by  which  they  can  number  five,  but  I  have  read  of 
none  that  have  not  names  for  day  and  night,  for  summer 
and  winter. 


60  NATIONAL  READER. 

Yet  it  is  certain,  that  these  admonitions  of  nature,  how- 
ever forcible,  however  importunate,  are  too  often  vain ;  and 
that  many,  who  mark  with  such  accuracy  the  course  of  time, 
appear  to  have  little  sensibility  of  the  decline  of  life.  Every 
man  has  something  to  do,  which  he  neglects  ;  every  man  has 
faults  to  conquer,  which  he  delays  to  combat.^ 

So  little  do  we  accustom  ourselves  to  consider  the  effects 
of  time,  that  things  necessary  and  certain  often  surprise  us 
like  unexpected  contingencies.  We  leave  the  beauty  in 
her  bloom,  and,  after  an  absence  of  twenty  years,  wonder, 
at  our  return,  to  find  her  faded.  We  meet  those  whom  we 
left  children,  and  can  scarcely  persuade  ourselves  to  treat 
them  as  men.  The  traveller  visits,  in  age,  those  countries 
through  which  he  rambled  in  his  youth,  and  hopes  for  mer- 
riment at  the  old  place.  The  man  of  business,  wearied 
with  unsatisfactory  prosperity,  retires  to  the  town  of  his 
nativity,  and  expects  to  piny  away  his  last  years  with  the 
compa  "lions  of  his  childhood,  and  recover  youth  in  the  fields 
where  he  once  was  young. 

From  this  inattention,  so  general  and  so  mischievous,  let 
it  be  every  man's  study  to  exempt  himself.  Let  him  that 
desires  to  see  others  happy,  make  haste  to  give  while  his 
gift  can  be  enjoyed,  and  remember,  that  every  moment  of 
delay  takes  away  something  from  the  value  of  his  benefac- 
tion ;  and  let  him,  who  proposes  his  own  happiness,  reflect, 
that,  while  he  forms  his  purpose,  the  day  rolls  on,  and  *'  the 
night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work." 


LESSON  XXXI. 

Lines  written  ly  one  who  had  long  been  resident  in  India^  on 
his  return  to  his  native  country. — ANONYMOUS. 

1  CAME,  but  they  had  passed  away — 

The  fair  in  form,  the  pure  in  mind; — 
And,  like  a  stricken  deer,  I  stray 

Where  all  are  strange,  and  none  are  kind, — 
Kind  to  the  worn,  the  wearied  soul, 

That  pants,  that  struggles,  for  repose. 
O  that  my  steps  had  reached  the  goal 

Where  earthly  sighs  and  sorrows  close1 

*  Pron.  cum'-bat. 


NATIONAL   READER.  01 

Years  have  passed  o'er  me,  like  a  dream 

That  leaves  no  trace  on  memory's  page  : 
I  look  around  me,  and  I  seem 

Some  relic  of  a  former  age. 
Alone,  as  in  a  stranger  clime, 

Where  stranger  voices  mock  my  ear, 
I  mark  the  lagging  course  of  time, 

Without  a  wish, — a  hope, — a  fear  ! 

Yet  I  had  hopes — and  they  have  fled ; 

And  fears — and  they  were  all  too  true ; 
My  wishes  too — but  they  are  dead ; 

And  what  have  I  with  life  to  do  ? 
>Tis  but  to  wear  a  weary  load 

I  may  not,  dare  not,  cast  away; 
To  sigh  for  one  small,  still  abode, 

Where  I  may  sleep  as  sweet  as  they , — 

As  they,  the  loveliest  of  their  race, 

Whose  grassy  tombs  my  sorrows  steep, 
Whose  worth  my  soul  delights  to  trace, 

Whose  very  loss  'tis  sweet  to  weep, — 
To  weep  beneath  the  silent  moon, 

With  none  to  chide,  to  hear,  to  see : 
Life  can  bestow  no  greater  boon 

On  one,  whom  death  disdains  to  free. 

I  leave  the  world,  that  knows  me  not, 

To  hold  communion  with  the  dead; 
And  fancy  consecrates  the  spot 

Where  fancy's  softest  dreams  are  shed. 
I  see  each  shade — all  silvery  white — 

I  hear  each  spirit's  melting  sigh ; 
I  turn  to  clasp  those  forms  of  light, — 

And  the  pale  morning  chills  my  eye. 

But  soon  the  last  dim  morn  shall  rise, — 

The  lamp  of  life  barns  feebly  now, — 
When  stranger  hands  shall  close  my  eyes, 

And  smooth  my  cold  and  dewy  brow. 
Unknown  I  lived  ;  so  let  me  die ; 

Nor  stone,  nor  monumental  cross, 
Tell  where  his  nameless  ashes  lie, 

Who  sighed  for  gold,  and  found  it  dross. 
6 


NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON   XXXII. 

"He  shall  fly  away  as  a  dream" — ANONYMOUS. 

I  DREAMED  i — I  saw  a  rosy  child, 

With  flaxen  ringlets,  in  a  garden  playing ; 
Now  stooping  here,  and  then  afar  off  straying, 

As  flower  or  butterfly  his  feet  beguiled. 

'Twas  changed ;  one  summer's  day  I  stepped  aside, 
To  let  him  pass ;  his  face  had  manhood's  seeming, 
And  that  full  eye  of  blue  was  fondly  beaming 

On  a  fair  maiden,  whom  he  called  his  bride. 

Once  more  ;  'twas  evening,  and  the  cheerful  fire 
I  saw  a  group  of  youthful  forms  surrounding, 
The  room  with  harmless  pleasantry  resounding , 

And,  in  the  midst,  I  marked  the  smiling  sire. 

The  heavens  were  clouded — and  I  heard  the  tone 

Of  a  slow-moving  beM  :  the  white-haired  man  had  gone. 


LESSON   XXXIII. 

The  Journey  of  a  Day, — A  Picture  of  Human  Life. — 
DR.  JOHNSON. 

OBTDAH,  the  son  of  Abensina,  left  the  caravansary  early 
in  the  morning,  and  pursued  his  journey  through  the  plains 
of  Hindostan.  He  was  fresh  and  vigorous  with  rest;  he 
UTIS  animated  with  hope  ;  he  was  incited  by  desire :  he 
walked  swiftly  forward  over  the  valleys,  and  saw  the  hills 
gradually  rising  before  him. 

As  he  passed  along,  his  ears  were  delighted  with  the 
morning  song  of  the  bird  of  paradise  ;  he  was  fanned  by  the 
last  flutters  of  the  sinking  breeze,  and  sprinkled  with  dew 
by  groves  of  spices :  he  sometimes  contemplated  the  tower- 
ing height  of  the  oak,  monarch  of  the  hills ;  and  sometimes 
caught  the  gentle  fragrance  of  the  primrose,  eldest  daughter 
of  the  spring:  all  his  senses  were  gratified,  and  all  care 
was  banished  from  his  heart. 


NATIONAL  READER.  63 

Thus  he  went  on  till  the  sun  approached  his  meridian, 
and  the  increasing  heat  preyed  upon  his  strength ;  he  then 
looked  round  about  him  for  some  more  commodious  path. 
He  saw,  on  his  right  hand,  a  grove,  that  seemed  to  wave  its 
shades  as  a  sign  of  invitation  ;  he  entered  it,  and  found  the 
coolness  and  verdure  irresistibly  pleasant.  He  did  not, 
however,  forget  whither  he  \vas  travelling,  but  found  a  nar- 
row way,  bordered  with  flowers,  which  appeared  to  have 
the  same  direction  with  the  main  road,  and  was  pleased, 
that,  by  this  Imppy  experiment,  he  had  found  means  to  unite 
pleasure  with  business,  and  to  gain  the  rewaids  of  diligence, 
without  suffering  its  fatigues. 

He,  therefore,  still  continued  to  walk  for  a  time,  without 
the  least  remission  of  his  ardour,  except  that  he  was  some- 
times tempted  to  stop  by  the  music  of  the  birds,  whom  the 
heat  had  assembled  in  the  shade,  and  sometimes  amused 
himself  with  plucking  the  flowers  that  covered  the  banks,  oa 
either  side,  or  the  fruits  that  hung  upon  the  branches.  At 
last,  the  green  path  began  to  decline  from  its  first  tendency, 
and  to  wind  among  the  hills  and  thickets,  cooled  with  foun- 
tains, and  murmuring  with  water-falls. 

Here  Obidah  paused  for  a  time,  and  began  to  consider, 
whether  it  were  longer  safe  to  forsake  the  known  and  com- 
mon track ;  but,  remembering  that  the  heat  was  now  in  its 
greatest  violence,  and  that  the  plain  was  dusty  and  uneven, 
he  resolved  to  pursue  the  new  path,  which  he  supposed  only 
to  make  a  few  meanders,  in  compliance  with  the  varieties 
of  the  ground,  and  to  end  at  last  in  the  common  road. 

Having  thus  calmed  his  solicitude,  he  renewed  his  pace, 
though  he  suspected  he  was  not  gaining  ground.  This 
uneasiness  of  his  mind  inclined  him  to  lay  hold  on  every 
new  object,  and  give  wa}  to  every  sensation  that  might 
soothe  or  divert  him.  He  listened  to  every  echo,  he  mount- 
ed every  lull  for  a  fresh  prospect,  he  turned  aside  to  every 
cascade,  and  pleased  himself  with  tracing  the  course  of  a 
gentle  river,  that  rolled  among  the  trees,  and  watered  a  large 
region,  with  innumerable  circumvolutions. 

In  these  amusements,  the  hours  passed  away  unaccounted ; 
his  deviations  had  perplexed  his  memory,  and  he  knew  not 
towards  what  point  to  travel.  He  stood  pensive  and  con- 
fused, afraid  to  go  forward,  lest  he  should  go  wrong,  yet 
conscious  that  the  time  of  loitering  was  now  past.  While 
he  was  thus  tortured  with  uncertainty,  the  sky  was  over- 


64  NATIONAL  READER. 

spread  with  clouds,  the  day  vanished  from  before  him,  and 
a  sudden  tempest  gathered  round  his  head. 

He  was  now  roused,  hy  his  danger,  to  a  quick  and  pain- 
ful remembrance  of  his  folly ;  he  now  saw  how  happiness 
is  lost  when  ease  is  consulted ;  he  lamented  the  unmanly 
impatience  that  prompted  him  to  seek  shelter  in  the  grove, 
and  despised  the  petty  curiosity  that  led  him  on  from  trifle 
to  trifle.  While  he  was  thus  reflecting,  the  air  grew  blacker, 
and  a  clap  of  thunder  broke  his  meditation. 

He  now  resolved  to  do  what  remained  yet  in  his  power, — 
to  tread  back  the  ground  which  he  had  passed,  and  try  to 
find  some  issue,  where  the  wood  might  open  into  the  plain. 
He  prostrated  himself  upon  the  ground,  and  commended  his 
life  to  the  Lord  of  nature.  He  rose  with  confidence  and 
tranquillity,  and  pressed  on  with  his  sabre  in  his  hand  ;  for 
the  beasts  of  the  desert  were  in  motion,  and  on  every  hand 
were  heard  the  mingled  howls  of  rage,  and  fear,  and  ravage, 
and  expiration  :  all  the  horrors  of  darkness  and  solitude 
surrounded  him ;  the  winds  roared  in  the  woods,  and  the 
torrents  tumbled  from  the  hills. 

"Worked  into  sudden  rage  by  wintry  showers, 
Down  the  steep  hill  the  roaring  torrent  pours  : 
The  mountain  shepherd  hears  the  distant  noise." 

Thus,  forlorn  and  distressed,  he  wandered  through  the 
wild,  without  knowing  whither  he  was  going,  or  whether 
he  was  every  moment  drawing  nearer  to  safety  or  to  destruc- 
tion. At  length,  not  fear,  but  labour,  began  to  overcome 
him  ;  his  breath  grew  short,  and  his  knees  trembled,  and  he 
was  on  the  point  of  lying  down,  in  resignation  to  his  fate, 
when  he  beheld,  through  the  brambles,  the  glimmer  of  a 
taper.  "He  advanced  towards  the  light,  and,  finding  that  it 
proceeded  from  the  cottage  of  a  hermit,  he  called  humbly  at 
the  door,  and  obtained  admission.  The  old  man  sat  before 
him  such  provisions  as  he  had  collected  for  himself,  on 
which  Obidah  fed  with  eagerness  and  gratitude. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  "  Tell  me,"  said  the  hermit, 
"  by  what  chance  thou  hast  been  brought  hither :  I  have 
been  now  twenty  years  an  inhabitant  of  this  wilderness,  in 
which  I  never  saw  a  man  before."  Obidah  then  related 
the  occurrences  of  his  journey,  without  any  concealment  or 
palliation. 

"  Son,"  said  the  hermit,  "  let  the  errors  and  follies,  the 
dangers  and  escapes,  of  this  day,  sink  deep  into  thy  heart. 


NATIONAL  READER.  65 

Remember,  my  son,  that  human  life  is  the  journey  of  a  day. 
We  rise  in  the  morning  of  youth,  full  of  vigour,  and  full  of 
expectation ;  we  set  forward  with  spirit  and  hope,  with 
gaiety  and  with  diligence,  and  travel  on  a  while  in  the 
straight  road  of  piety,  towards  the  mansions  of  rest.  In  a 
short  time  we  remit  our  fervour,  and,  endeavour  to  find  some 
mitigation  of  our  duty,  and  some  more  easy  means  of  ob- 
taining the  same  end. 

"  We  then  relax  our  vigour,  and  resolve  no  longer  to  be 
terrified  with  crimes  at  a  distance,  but  rely  upon  our  own 
constancy,  and  venture  to  approach  what  we  resolve  never 
to  touch.  We  thus  enter  the  bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in 
the  shades  of  security.  Here  the  heart  softens,  and  vigi- 
lance subsides :  we  are  then  willing  to  inquire  whether 
another  advance  cannot  be  made,  and  whether  we  may  not, 
at  least,  turn  our  eyes  upon  the  gardens  of  pleasure.  We 
approach  them  with  scruple  and  hesitation  ;  we  enter  them, 
but  enter  timorous  and  trembling,  and  always  hope  to  pass 
through  them  without  losing  the  road  of  virtue,  which  we, 
for  a  while,  keep  in  our  sight,  and  to  which  we  propose  to 
return. 

"  But  temptation  succeeds  temptation,  and  one  compliance 
prepares  us  for  another;  we,  in  time,  lose  the  happiness  of 
innocence,  and  solace  our  disquiet  with  sensual  gratifications. 
By  degrees  we  let  fall  the  remembrance  of  our  original 
intention,  and  quit  the  only  adequate  object  of  rational  desire. 
We  entangle  ourselves  in  business,  immerge  ourselves  in 
luxury,  and  rove  through  the  labyrinths  of  inconstancy,  till 
the  darkness  of  old  age  begins  to  invade  us,  and  disease 
and  anxiety  obstruct  our  way:  We  then  look  back  upon 
our  lives  with  horror,  with  sorrow,  with  repentance ;  and 
wish,  but  too  often  vainly  wish,  that  we  had  not  forsaken 
the  ways  of  virtue. 

"  Happy  are  they,  my  son,  who  shall  learn,  from  thy 
example,  not  to  despair,  but  shall  remember,  that,  though  the 
day  is  past,  and  their  strength  is  wasted,  there  yet  remains 
one  effort  to  be  made  ;  that  reformation  is  never  horteless, 
nor  sincere  endeavours  ever  unassisted  ;  that  the  wanderer 
may  at  length  return,  after  all  his  errors  ;  and  that  he,  who 
implores  strength  and  courage  from  above,  shall  find  danger 
and  difficulty  give  way  before  him.  Go  now,  my  son,  to 
thy  repose  ;  commit  thyself  to  the  care  of  Omnipotence , 
and,  when  the  morning  calls  again  to  toil,  begin  anew  thy 
journey  and  thy  life."  -. 


06  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON   XXXIV. 

The  Vision  of  Mirza. — ADDISON. 

ON  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which,  according  to  the 
custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  always  kept  holy,  after  having 
washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I 
ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest 
of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I  was  here  airing 
myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  I  fell  into  a  profound 
contemplation  on  the  vanity  of  human  life ;  and,  passing 
from  one  thought  to  another,  "  Surely,"  said  I,  "  man  is  but 
a  shadow,  and  life  a  dream." 

Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the 
summit  of  a  rock,  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  disco- 
vered one,  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical  instru- 
ment in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  applied  it  to 
his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The  sound  of  it  was 
exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a  variety  of  tunes,  that 
were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and  altogether  different  from 
any  thing  I  had  ever  heard.  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those 
heavenly  airs,  that  are  played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good 
men  .upon  their  first  arrival  in  paradise,  to  wear  out  the 
impressions  of  the  last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the 
pleasures  of  that  happy  place. 

My  heart  melted  away  in  secret  raptures.  I  had  been 
often  told,  that  the  rock  before  me  was  the  haunt  of  a  Ge- 
nius ;  and  that  several  had  been  entertained  with  music, 
who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard  that  the  musician  had 
before  made  himself  visible.  When  he  had  raised  my 
thoughts,  by  those  transporting  airs  which  he  played,  to 
taste  the  pleasure  of  his  conversation,  as  I  looked  upon  him, 
like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned  to  me,  and,  by  the  wav- 
ing of  his  hand,  directed  me  to  approach  the  place  where 
he  sat. 

I  drew  near,  with  that  reverence  which  is  due  to  a  supe- 
rior nature ;  and,  as  rny  heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the 
captivating  strains  I  had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet,  and 
wept.  The  Genius  smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compas- 
sion and  affability  that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination, 
and,  at  once,  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions  with 
which  I  approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground, 


NATIONAL  READER.  67 

and,  taking  me  by  the  hand,  "  Mirza,"  said  he,  "  I  have  heard 
thee  in  thy  soliloquies  :  follow  me." 

He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock,  and, 
placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  "  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,"  said 
he,  "  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest."  "  I  see,"  said  I,  "  a  huge 
valley,  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling  through  it." 
"  The  valley  that  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "  is  the  valley  of 
misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest  is  part  of  the 
great  tide  of  eternity."  "What  is  the  reason,"  said  I, 
"  that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist  at  one  end,  and 
again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the  other  ?" 

"  What  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "  is  that  portion  of  eternity 
which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  and  reaching 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its  consummation.  Ex- 
amine now,"  said  he,  "  this  sea,  that  is  thus  bounded  with 
darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me  what  thou  discoverest  in 
it."  "I  see  a  bridge,"  said  I,  "standing  in  the  midst  of  the 
tide."  "The  bridge  thou  seest,"  said  he,  "is  human  life: 
consider  it  attentively."  Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it, 
I  found  that  it  consisted  of  three-score  and  ten  entire  arches, 
with  several  broken  arches,  which,  added  to  those  that  were 
entire,  made  up  the  number  about  a  hundred. 

As  I  was  counting  the  arches,  the  Genius  told  me  that 
this  bridge  consisted,  at  first,  of  a  thousand  arches ;  but  that 
a  great  flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the 
ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  "  But  tell  me  farther," 
said  he,  "what  thou  discoverest  on  it."  "I  see  multitudes 
of  people  passing  over  it,"  said  I,  "  and  a  black  cloud  hang- 
ing on  each  end  of  it." 

As  I  looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  passen- 
gers dropping  through  the  bridge  into  the  great  tide  that 
flowed  underneath  it ;  and,  upon  farther  examination,  per- 
ceived there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  concealed 
In  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod  upon,  but 
they  fell  through  them  into  the  tide,  and  immediately  dis- 
appeared. These  hidden  pit-falls  were  set  very  thick  at  the 
entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of  people  no  sooner 
broke  through  the  cloud,  than  many  of  them  fell  into  them. 
They  grew  thinner  towards  the  middle,  but  multiplied  and 
lay  closer  together  towards  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were 
entire; 

There  were  indeed  some  persons, — but  their  number  was 
very  small, — that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march  on  the 


68  NATIONAL  READER. 

broken  arches,  but  fell  through,  one  after  another,  being 
quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk.  I  passed  some 
time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  wonderful  structure,  and 
the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it  presented. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy,  to  see  seve- 
ral dropping,  unexpectedly,  in  the  midst  of  mirth  and  jollity, 
and  catching  by  every  thing  that  stood  by  them  to  save 
themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  towards  the  heavens 
in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and,  in  the  midst  of  n  speculation, 
stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes  were  very  busy 
in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles,  that  glittered  in  their  eyes  and 
danced  before  them ;  but  often,  when  they  thought  them- 
seh'es  within  the  reach  of  them,  their  footing  failed,  and 
down  they  sunk. 

In  this  confusion  of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  cime- 
ters  in  their  hands,  and  others  with  lancets,  who  ran  to  and 
fro  upon  the  bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors 
which  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  tlieir  way,  and  which  they 
might  have  escaped,  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon 
them. 

The  Genius,  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melancholy 
prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it.  "  Take 
thine  eyes  off  the  bridge,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  me  if  thou  yet 
seest  any  thing  thou  dost  not  comprehend."  Upon  looking 
up,  "  What  mean,"  said  I,  "  those  great  flights  of  birds  that 
are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and  settling  upon 
it  from  time  to  time  ?  I  see  vultures,  harpies,  ravens,  cor- 
morants, and,  among  many  other  feathered  creatures,  several 
little  winged  boys,  that  perch,  in  great  numbers,  upon  the 
middle  arches." 

"  These,"  said  the  Genius,  "  are  Envy,  Avarice,  Supersti- 
tion, Despair,  Love,  with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that 
infest  human  life."  I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "  Alas  !" 
said  I,  "  man  was  made  in  vain !  how  is  he  given  away  to 
misery  and  mortality !  tortured  in  life,  and  swallowed  up  in 
death  !"  The  Genius,  being  moved  with  compassion  towards 
me,  bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.  "  Look  no 
more."  said  he,  "  on  man,  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence, 
in  his  setting  out  for  eternity ;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that 
thick  mist,  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  generations 
of  mortals  that  fall  into  it." 

I  directed  my  sight  as  T  was  ordered,  and — whether  or  no 
t^e  good  Genius  strengthened  it  with  any  supernatural  force. 


NATIONAL  READER.  69 

or  dissipated  part  of  the  mist,  that  was  before  too  thick  foi 
the  eye  to  penetrate — I  saw  the  valley  opening  at  the  farther 
end,  and  spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a 
huge  rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and 
dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.  The  clouds  still  rested  on 
one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing  in  it : 
but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean,  planted  with 
innumerable  islands,^  that  were  covered  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shining  seas, 
that  ran  among  them. 

I  could  see  persons  dressed  in  glorious  hates,  with  gar- 
lands upon  their  heads,  passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down 
by  the  sides  of  fountains,  or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers ;  and 
could  hear  a  confused  harmony  of  singing  birds,  falling 
waters,  human  voices,  and  musical  instruments.  Gladness 
grew  in  me  upon  the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.  I 
wished  for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to 
those  happy  seats;  but  the  Genius  told  me,  there  was  no 
passage  to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death,  that  I 
saw  opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge. 

"  The  islands,"  said  he,  "  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  be- 
fore thee,  and  with  which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  ap- 
pears spotted,  as  far  as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number 
than  the  sands  on  the  sea  shore.  There  are  myriads  of 
islands  behind  those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching 
farther  than  thine  eye,  or  even  thine  imagination,  can  ex- 
tend itself.  These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after 
death,  who,  according  to  the  degrees  and  kinds  of  virtue!  in 
which  they  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several 
islands,  which  abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and 
degrees,  suitable  to  the  relishes  and  perfections:  of  those  who 
are  settled  in  them.  Every  island  is  a  paradise  accommo- 
dated to  its  respective  inhabitants. 

"  Are  not  these,  O  Mirza,  habitations  worth  contending  for? 
Does  life  appear  miserable,  that  gives  thee  opportunities  of 
earning  such  a  reward?  Is  death  to  be  feared,  that  will 
convey  thee  to  so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was 
made  in  vain,  who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for  him." 
I  gazed  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  those  happy  islands. 
At  length,  said  I,  "  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets 
that  lie  under  those  dark  clouds,  that  covei  the  ocean  on 
the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant." 

*  Pran.  I'-13uds.  t  Pron.  ver'-tshu. 


70  NATIONAL  READER. 

The  Genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to 
address  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he 
had  left  me.  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I  had 
been  so  long  contemplating  ;  but,  instead  of  the  rolling  tide, 
the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw  nothing  but 
the  long,  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen,  sheep  and 
camels  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it. 


LESSON  XXXV. 

The  World  we  have  not  sten. — ANONYMOUS. 

THERE  is  a  world  we  have  not  seen, 
That  time  shall  never  dare  destroy, 

Where  mortal  footstep  hath  not  been, 
Nor  ear  hath  caught  its  sounds  of  joy. 

There  is  a  region,  lovelier  far 

Than  sages  tell,  or  poets  sing, 
Brighter  than  summer  beauties  are, 

And  softer  than  the  tints  of  spring. 

There  is  a  world, — and  O  how  blest  I—- 
Fairer than  prophets  ever  told ; 

And  never  did  an  angel  guest 
One  half  its  blessedness  unfold. 

It  is  all  holy  and  serene, 

The  land  of  glory  and  repose  ; 
And  there,  to  dim  the  radiant  scene. 

The  tear  of  sorrow  never  flows. 

It  is  not  fanned  by  summer  gale ; 

'Tis  not  refreshed  by  vernal  showers ; 
It  never  needs  the  moon-beam  pale, 

For  there  are  known  no  evening  hours, 

No  :  for  this  world  is  ever  bright   - 
With  a  pure  radiance  all  its  own  ; 

The  streams  of  uncreated  light 

Flow  round  it  from  the  Eternal  Throne. 


1 


NATIONAL   READER. 

Tiiere  forms,  that  mortals  may  not  see, 
Too  glorious  for  the  eye  to  trace, 

And  clad  in  peerless  majesty, 
Move  with  unutterable  grace. 

In  vain  the  philosophic  eye 

May  seek  to  view  the  fair  abode, 
Or  find  it  in  the  curtained  sky : — 

It  is  THE  DWELLING-PLACE  OF  GoD. 


LESSON  XXXVI. 

The  Better  Land. — -MRS.  HEM'ANS. 

"  J  HEAR  thee  speak  of  the  better  land  ; 
Thou  call'st  its  children  a  happy  band ; 
Mother !  oh,  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? — 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more  ? — 
Is  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  the  fire-flies  dance  through  the  myrtle  boughs  ?" 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  !" 

Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies  ? — 
Or  midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange  bright  birds,  o'n  their  starry  wings, 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things  ?" 

— "Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!" 

*  Is  it  far  away,  in  some  region  old,  ^ 

Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold, 
Where  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
And  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  cor'al  strand  ? 
is  it  there,  sweet  mother  !  that  better  land  ?" 

— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  ! 

1  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy ! 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  sounds  of  joy; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair ; 
Sorrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there ; 


NATIONAL  READER. 


Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom  ; 
Beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb  ; 

—  It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  !" 


LESSON  XXXVII. 

The  Widow  and  her  So?i. — C.  EDWARDS. 

"  My  life,  my  joy,  my  food,  my  all  the  world ! 
My  widow-comfort,  and  my  sorrow's  cure !" 

CONSUMPTION  is  a  siren.  She  can  give  a  charm  even  to 
deformity.  In  my  school  boy  days,  there  lived  an  aged 
widow  near  the  church-yard.  She  had  an  only  child.  I 
have  often  observed,  that  the  delicate,  and  the  weak,  receive 
more  than  a  common  share  of  affection  from  a  mother. 
Such  a  feeling  was  shown  by  this  widow  towards  her  sickly 
and  unshapely  boy. 

There  are  faces  and  forms  which,  once  seen,  are  impress- 
ed upon  our  brain ;  and  they  will  come  again,  and  again, 
upon  the  tablet  of  our  memory  in  the  quiet  night,  and  even 
flit  around  us  in  our  day  walks.  Many  years  have  gone  by 
since  I  first  saw  this  boy ;  but  his  delicate  form,  his  quiet 
manner,  and  his  gentle  and  virtuous  conduct,  are  often 
before  me. 

I  shall  never  forget, — in  the  sauciness  of  youth,  and  fan- 
cying it  would  give  importance  to  my  bluff  outside,— sivear- 
ing  in  his  presence.  The  boy  was  sitting  in  a  high-backed 
easy  chair,  reading  his  Bible.  He  turned  round,  as  if  a 
signal  for  dying  had  sounded  in  his  ear,  and  fixed  upon  me 
his  clear  gray  eye — that  look  !  it  made  my  little  heart  almost 
choke  me : — I  gave  some  foolish  excuse  for  getting  out  of 
the  cottage ;  and,  as  I  met  a  playmate  on  the  road,  who 
jeered  me  for  my  blank  countenance,  I  rushed  past  him,  hid 
myself  in  an  adjoining  cornfield,  and  cried  bitterly. 

I  tried  to  conciliate  the  widow's  son,  and  show  my  sorrow 
for  having  so  far  forgotten  the  innocence  of  boyhood,  as  to 
have  had  my  Maker's  name  sounded  in  an  unhallowed  man- 
ner from  my  lips :  but  I  could  not  reconcile  him.  My  spring 
flowers  he  accepted;  but,  when  my  back  was  turned,  he 
flung  them  away.  The  toys  and  books  I  offered  to  him 
were  put  aside  for  his  Bible.  His  only  occupations  were, 
the  feeding  of  a  favourite  hen.  which  \vou3d  come  to  his 


NATIONAL  READER.  72 

chair  and  look  up  for  the  crumbs  he  would  let  fall,  with  a 
noiseless  action,  from  his  thin  fingers,  watching  the  pendu- 
lum and  hands  of  the  wooden  clock,  and  reading. 

Although  I  could  not,  at  that  time,  fully  appreciate  the 
beauty  of  a  mother's  love,  still  I  venerated  the  widow  for 
the  unobtrusive,  but  intense,  attention  she  displayed  to  her 
son.  I  never  entered  her  dwelling  without  seeing  her  en- 
gaged in  kind  offices  towards  him.  If  the  sunbeam  came 
through  the  leaves  of  the  geraniums,  placed  in  the  window, 
with  too  strong  a  glare,  she  moved  the  high-backed  chair 
with  as  much  care  as  if  she  had  been  putting  aside  a  crystal 
temple.  When  he  slept,  she  festooned  her  silk  handker- 
chief around  his  place  of  rest.  She  placed  the  earliest  vio- 
lets upon  her  mantel-piece  for  him  to  look  at ;  and  the 
roughness  of  her  own  meal,  and  the  delicacy  of  the  child's, 
sufficiently  displayed  her  sacrifices.  Easy  and  satisfied,  the 
widow  moved  about.  I  never  saw  her  but  once  unhappy. 
She  was  then  walking  thoughtfully  in  her  garden.  I  beheld 
a  tear.  I  did  not  dare  to  intrude  upon  her  grief,  and  ask 
her  the  cause  of  it ;  but  I  found  the  reason  in  her  cottage : 
her  boy  had  been  spitting  blood. 

I  have  often  envied  him  these  endearments ;  for  I  was 
away  from  a  parent  who  humoured  me  even  when  I  was  stub- 
born and  unkind.  My  poor  mother  is  in  her  grave.  I  have 
often  regretted  having  been  her  pet,  her  favourite  :  for  the 
coldness  of  the  world  makes  me  wretched;  and,  perhaps, 
if  I  had  not  drunk  at  the  very  spring  of  a  mother's  affection, 
I  might  have  let  scorn  and  con'tumely  pass  by  me  as  the  idle 
wind.  Yet  I  have,  afterwards,  asked  myself  what  I,  a 
thoughtless  though  not  heartless  boy,  should  have  come  to, 
if 'I  had  riot  had  such  a  comforter: — I  have  asked  myself 
this,  felt  satisfied  and  grateful,  and  wished  that  her  spirit 
might  watch  around  a  child,  who  often  met  her  kindness 
with  passion,  and  received  her  gifts  as  if  he  expected  ho- 
mage from  her. 

Every  body  experiences  how  quickly  school  years  pass 
away ;  and  many  persons  regret  their  flight.  As  for  myself, 
I  do  not  wish  for  the  return  of  boyhood's  days.  I  cannot 
forget  the  harshness  of  rny  master.  I  cannot  but  know,  that, 
if  he  had  studied  my  character,  and  tempered  me  as  the  hot 
iron  is  made  pliable,  I  should  have  been  a  different  and  a 
better  being.  I  still  remember  the  tyr'anny  of  older  spirits. 
School  may  have  its  pleasures ;  but  the  sorrows  of  a  think- 
ing boy  are  like  the  griefs  of  a  fallen  angel. 
I 


74  NATIONAL  READER. 

My  father's  residence  was  not  situated  in  the  village 
where  I  was  educated ;  so  that,  when  I  left  school,  I  left 
its  scenes  also. 

After  several  years  had  passed  away,  accident  took  me 
again  to  the  well-known  place.  The  stable,  into  which  I 
led  my  horse,  w^as  dear  to  me ;  for  I  had  often  listened  to 
the  echo  that  danced  within  it,  when  the  bells  were  ringing. 
The  face  of  the  landlord  was  strange ;  but  I  could  not  for- 
get the  in-kneed,  red-whiskered  hostler^ :  he  had  given  me 
a  hearty  thrashing  as  a  return  for  a  hearty  jest. 

I  had  reserved  a  broad  piece  of  silver  for  the  old  widow. 
But  I  first  ran  towards  the  river,  and  walked  upon  the  mill- 
bank.  I  was  surprised  at  the  apparent  narrowness  of  the 
stream ;  and,  although  the  willows  still  fringed  the  margin, 
and  appeared  to  stoop  in  homage  to  the  water  lilies,  yet  they 
were  diminutive  !  Every  thing  was  but  a  miniature  of  the 
picture  within  rny  mind.  It  proved  to  me  that  my  faculties 
had  grown  with  my  growth,  and  strengthened  with  my 
strength. 

With  something  like  disappointment,  I  left  the  river  side, 
and  strolled  towards  the  church.  My  hand  was  in  my 
pocket,  grasping  the  broad  piece  of  silver.  I  imagined  to 
myself  the  kind  look  of  recognition  I  should  receive ;  I  de- 
termined on  the  way  in  which  I  should  press  the  money 
into  the  widow's  hand.  But  I.  felt  my  nerves  lightly  trem- 
ble as  I  thought  on  the  look  her  son  had  given,  and  again 
might  give  me. 

Ah,  there  is  the  cottage !  but  the  honey-suckle  is  older, 
and  it  has  lost  many  of  its  branches  ! 

The  door  was  closed.  A  pet  lamb  was  fastened  to  0 
loose  cord  under  the  window ;  and  its  melancholy  bleating 
was  the  only  sound  that  disturbed  the  silence.  In  former 
years,  I  used,  at  once,  to  pull  the  string  which  assisted  the 
wooden  latch ;  but  now,  I  deliberately  knocked.  A  strange 
female  form,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  opened  the  door.  1 
asked  for  my  old  acquaintance.  "  Alas !  poor  Alice  is  in 
her  coffin :  look,  sir,  where  the  shadow  of  the  spire  ends : 
that  is  her  grave."  I  relaxed  my  grasp  of  my  money.  "  And 
her  deformed  boy  ?"  "  He  too,  sir,  is  there  !"  I  drew  my 
hand  from  my  pocket. 

It  was  a  hard  task  for  me  to  thank  the  woman,  but  I  did 

so.     I  moved  to  the  place  where  the  mother  and  the  child 

were  buried.     I  stood  for    <ome  minutes,  in  silence,  beside 

the  mound  of  grass.     I  taought  of  the   consumptive  lad, 

*  Pron,  os'Ier. 


NATIONAL  READER.  76 

and,  as  I  did  so,  the  lamb  at  the  cottage  window  gave  its 
anxious  bleat.  And  then  all  the  affectionate  attentions  of 
my  own  mother  t,rose  on  my  soul ;  while  my  lips  trembled 
out — "  Mother !  dear  mother !  would  that  I  were  as  is  the 
widow's  son  !  would  that  I  were  sleeping  in  thy  grave  !  I 
loved  thee,  mother !  but  I  would  nof  have  thee  living  now, 
to  view  the  worldly  sorrows  of  thy  ungrateful  boy!  My 
first  step  towards  vice  was  the  oath  which  the  deformed 
child  heard  me  utter. 

"  I  have  often  wished  my  means  were  equal  to  my  heart. 
Circumstances,  alone,  have  unmade  me. — And  you,  who 
rest  here  as  quietly  as  you  lived,  shall  receive  the  homage 
of  the  unworthy.  I  will  protect  this  hillock  from  the  steps 
of  the  heedless  wanderer,  and  from  the  trampling  of  the 
village  herd.  I  will  raise  up  a  tabernacle  to  purity  and 
love.  I  will  do  it  in  secret ;  and  I  look  not  to  be  rewarded 
openly." 


LESSON  XXXVIII. 

The  Little  Man  in  Black.— -and-  IRVING. 

THE  following  story  has  been  handed  down  by  family 
tradition  for  more  than  a  century.  It  is  one  on  which  my 
cousin  Christopher  dwells,  with  more  than  his  usual  prolix- 
ity ;  and  I  have  thought  it  worthy  of  being  laid  before  my 
readers. 

Soon  after  my  grandfather,  Mr.  Lemuel  Cockloft,  had 
quietly  settled  himself  at  the  Hall,  and  just  about  the  time 
that  the  gossips  of  the  neighbourhood,  tired  of  prying  into  his 
affairs,  were  anxious  for  some  new  tea-table  topic,  the  busy 
community  of  our  little  village  was  thrown  into  a  grand  tur- 
moil of  curiosity  and  conjecture, — a  situation  very  common 
to  little  gossiping  villages, —  by  the  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able appearance  of  a  mysterious  individual. 

The  object  of  this  solicitude  was  a  little,  black-looking 
man,  of  a  foreign  aspect,  who  took  possession  of  an  old 
building,  which,  having  long  had  the  reputation  of  being 
haunted,^  was  in  a  state  of  ruinous  desolation,  and  an  object 
of  fear  to  all  true  believers  in  ghosts. 

He  usually  wore  a  high  sugar-loaf  hat,  with  a  narrow 

*  Haunt,  pronounced  to  rhyme  with  au?it}  not  with  leant. 


76  NATIONAL  READER. 

brim,  and  a  little  black  cloak,  which,  short  as  he  was, 
scarcely  reached  helow  his  knees.  He  sought  no  intimacy 
or  acquaintance  with  any  one  ;  appeared  to  take  no  interest 
in  the  pleasures  or  the  Little  broils  of  the  village  ;  nor  ever 
talked,  except  sometimes  to  himself  in  an  outlandish  tongue. 

He  commonly  Carried  a  large  book,  covered  with  sheep- 
skin, under  his  arm ;  appeared  always  to  be  lost  in  medi- 
tation ;  and  was  often  met  by  the  peasantry,  sometimes 
watching  the  dawn  of  day,  sometimes,  at  noon,  seated  under 
a  tree,  poring  over  his  volume,  and  sometimes,  at  evening, 
gazing,  with  a  look  of  sober  tranquillity,  at  the  sun,  as  it 
gradually  sunk  below  the  horizon. 

The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  beheld  something  prodi- 
giously singular  in  all  this.  A  profound  mystery  seemed  to 
hang  about  the  stranger,  which,  with  all  their  sagacity,  they 
could  not  penetrate ;  and,  in  the  excess  of  worldly  charity, 
they  pronounced  it  a  sure  sign  "that  he  was'no  better  than 
he  should  be  :" — a  phrase  innocent  enough  in  itself,  but 
which,  as  applied  in  common,  signifies  nearly  every  thing 
that  is  bad. 

The  young  people  thought  him  a  gloomy  mis'anthrope, 
because  he  nevefi^oined  in  their  sports  : — the  old  men 
thought  still  morinlr  *irclly  of  him,  because  he  followed  no 
trade,  nor  ever  seemed  ambitious  of  earning  a  farthing : — 
and,  as  to  the  old  gossips,  baffled  by  the  inflexible  tacitur- 
nity of  the  stranger,  they  unanimously  decreed,  that  a  man, 
who  could  not,  or  would  not  talk,  was  no  better  than  a  dumb 
beast. 

The  little  man  in  black,  careless  of  their  opinions,  seemed 
resolved  to  maintain  the  liberty  of  keeping  his  own  secret; 
and  the  consequence  was,  that,  in  a  little  while,  the  whole 
village  was  in  an  uproar :  for,  in  little  communities  of  this 
description,  the  members  have  always  the  privilege  of  being 
thoroughly  versed,  and  even  of  meddling,  in  all  the  affairs 
of  each  other. 

A  confidential  conference  was  held,  one  Sunday  morning, 
alter  sermon,  at  the  door  of  the  village  church,  and  the 
character  of  the  unknown  fully  investigaied.  The  school- 
master gave,  as  his  opinion,  that  he  was  the  wandering 
Jew : — the  sexton  was  certain  that  he  must  be  a  free-mason, 
from  his  silence  : — a  third  maintained,  with  great  obstinacy, 
that  ne  was  a  High  German  doctor,  and  that  the  book,  which 
he  carried  about  with  him,  contained  the  secrets  of  the 
black  art: — hut  the  most  prevailing  opinion  seemed  to  be, 


NATIONAL  READER.  77 

that  he  was  a  witch, — a  race  of  beings  at  that  time  abound- 
ing in  those  parts, — and  a  sagacious  old  matron  proposed  to 
ascertain  the  fact,  by  sousing  him  into  a  kettle  of  hot  water. 

Suspicion,  when  once  afloat,  goes  with  wind  and  tide, 
and  soon  becomes  certainty.  Many  a  stormy  night  was  the 
little  man  in  black  seen,  by  the  flashes  of  lightning,  frisking 
and  curvet'ing  in  the  air  upon  a  broomstick ;  and  it  was 
always  observable  that,  at  those  times,  the  storm  did  more 
mischief  than  at  any  other.  The  old  lady,  in  particular, 
who  suggested  the  humane  ordeal" of  the  boiling  kettle,  lost,, 
on  one  of  these  occasions,  a  fine  brindle  cow ;  which  acci- 
dent was  entirely  ascribed  to  the  vengeance  of  the  little  man 
in  black 

If  ever  a  mischievous  hireling  rode  his  master's  favourite 
horse  to  a  distant  frolic,  and  the  animal  was  observed  to  be 
lame  and  jaded  in  the  morning,  the  little  man  in  black  was 
sure  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  affair  :  nor  could  a  high  wrind 
howl  through  the  village  at  night,  but  the  old  women  shrug- 
ged up  their  shoulders,  and  observed,  that  the  little  man  in 
black  was  in  his  tantrums. 

In  short,  he  became  the  bugbear  of  every  house  ;  and  was 
as  effectual  in  frightening  little  children  into  obedience  and 
hysterics  as  the  redoubtable  Raw-head-and-bloody-bones  him- 
self; nor  could  a  house-wTife^  of  the  village  sleep  in  peace, 
except  under  the  guardianship  of  a  horse-shoe  nailed  to 
the  door. 

The  object  of  these  direful  suspicions  remained,  for  some 
time,  totally  ignorant  of  the  wonderful  quandary  he  had 
occasioned  :  but  he  was  soon  doomed  to  feel  its  effects.  An 
individual,  \vho  is  once  so  Unfortunate  as  to  incur  the  odium 
of  a  village,  is,  in  a  great  measure,  outlawed  and  proscribed, 
and  becomes  a  mark  for  injury  and  insult;  particularly  if 
he  has  not  the  power,  or  the  disposition,  to  recriminate. 
The  little  venomous  passions,  which,  in  the  great  world,  are 
dissipated  and  weakened  by  being  widely  diffused,  act,  in 
the  narrow  limits  of  a  country  town,  with "  collected  vigour, 
and  become  rancorous,  in  proportion  as  they  are  confined  in 
their  sphere  of  action. 

The  little  man  in  black  experienced  the  truth  of  this. 
Every  mischievous  urchin,  returning  from  school,  had  full 
liberty  to  break  his  windows :  and  this  was  considered  as  a 
most  daring  exploit' ;  for,  in  such  awe  did  they  stand  of  him, 
that  the  most  od venturous  school-boy  was  never  seen  to 

*  Pro-n..  huz'-wiff. 
7* 


73  NATIONAL  READER. 

approach  liis  threshold ;  and,  at  night,  would  prefer  going 
round  by  the  by-roads,  where  a  traveller  had  been  murdered 
by  the  Indians,  rather  than  pass  by  the  door  of  his  forlorn 
habitation. 

The  only  living  creature,  that  seemed  to  have  any  care  or 
affection  for  this  deserted  being,  was  an  old  turnspit, — the 
companion  of  his  lonely  mansion,  arid  his  solitary  wander- 
ings,— the  sharer  of  his  scanty  meal,  and, — sorry  am  I  to 
say  it, — the  sharer  of  his  persecutions.  The  turnspit,  like 
his  master,  was  peaceable  and  inoffensive, — never  known  to 
bark  at  a  horse,  to  growl  at  a  traveller,  or  to  quarrel  with  the 
dogs  of  the  neighbourhood, 

He  followed  close  at  his  master's  heels,  when  he  went  out, 
and,  when  he  returned,  stretched  himself  in  the  sunbeams, 
at  the  door ;  demeaning  himself,  in  all  things,  like  a  civil 
and  well  disposed  turnspit.  But,  notwithstanding  his  ex'em- 
plary  deportment,  he  fell,  likewise,  under  the  ill  report  of  the 
village,  as  b^ing  the  familiar^  of  the  little  man  in  black,  and 
the  evil  spirit  that  presided  at  his  incantations.  The  old 
hovel  was  considered  as  the  scene  of  their  unhallowed  rites, 
and  its  harmless  tenants  regarded  with  a  detestation!  which 
their  inoffensive  conduct  never  merited. 

Though  pelted  and  jeered  at  by  the  brats  of  the  village, 
and  frequently  abused  by  their  parents,  the  little  man  in 
black  never  turned  to  rebuke  them ;  and  his  faithful  dog, 
when  wantonly  assaulted,  looked  up  wistfully  in  his  master's 
face,  and  there  learned  a  lesson  of  patience  and  forbearance. 


LESSON  XXXIX. 

The  sa?7ie,  concluded. 

THE  movements  of  this  inscrutable  being  had  long  been 
the  subject  of  speculation  at  Cockloft  Hall  ;  for  its  inmates 
were  full  as  much  given  to  wondering  as  their  descendants. 
The  patience  with  which  he  bore  his  persecutions,  particu- 
larly .surprised  them ;  for  patience  is  a  virtue  but  little 
.known  in  the  Cockloft  family. 

My  grandmother,  who,  it  appears,  was  rather  superstitious, 
saw  in  this  humility  nothing  but  the  gloomy  sullenness  of  a 
wizard,  who  restrained  himself  for  the  present,  in  hopes  of 

*  A  demon,  supposed  to  attend  at  call : — Johnson,     t  Pro??,  fkt-tes-to' 


NATIONAL  READER.  79 

midnight  vengeance.  The  parson  of  the  village,  who  was 
a  man  of  some  reading,  pronounced  it  the  stubborn  insensi- 
bility of  a  stoic  philosopher.  My  grandfather,  who,  worthy 
soul,  seldom  wandered  abroad  in  search  of  conclusions,  took 
data  from  his  own  excellent  heart,  and  regarded  it  as  the 
humble  forgiveness  of  a  Christian. 

But,  however  different  were  their  opinions  as  to  the  cha- 
racter of  the  stranger,  they  agreed  in  one  particular,  namely. 
in  never  intruding  upon  his  solitude  ;  and  my  grandmother, 
who  was,  at  that  time,  nursing  my  mother,  never  left  the 
foom  without  wisely  putting  the  large  family  Bible  into  the 
cradle, — a  sure  talisman,  in  her  opinion,  against  witchcraft 
and  nec'romancy. 

One  stormy  winter  night,  when  a  bleak  north-east  wind 
moaned  about  the  cottages,  and  roared  around  the  village 
steeple,  my  grandfather  was  returning  from  club,  preceded 
by  a  servant  with  a  lantern.  Just  as  he  arrived  opposite 
the.  desolate  abode  of  the  little  man  in  black,  he  was  arrested 
by  the  piteous  howling  of  a  dog,  which,  heard  in  the  pauses 
of  the  storm,  was  exquisitely  mournful ;  and  he  fancied, 
now  and  then,  that  he  caught  the  low  and  broken  groans  of 
some  one  in  distress. 

He  stopped  for  some  minutes,  hesitating  between  the  be- 
nevolence of  his  heart,  and  a  sensation  of  genuine  delicacy, 
which,  in  spite  of  his  eccentricity,  he  fully  possessed,  and 
which  forbade^  him  to  pry  into  the  concerns  of  his  neigh- 
bours. Perhaps,  too,  this  hesitation  might  have  been 
strengthened  by  a  little  taint  of  superstition ;  for,  sureiy,  if 
the  unknown  had  been  addicted  to  witchcraft,  this  was  a 
most  propitious  night  for  his  vaga'ries. 

At  length  the  old  gentleman's  philanthropy  predominated : 
he  approached  the  hovel,  and,  pushing  open  the  door, — for 
poverty  has  no  occasion  for  locks  and  keys, — beheld,  by  the 
light  of  the  lantern,  a  scene  that  smote  his  generous  heart  to 
the  core. 

On  a  miserable  bed,  with  a  pallid  and  emaciated  visage, 
and  hollow  eyes, — in  a  room  destitute  of  every  convenience, 
without  fire  to  warm,  or  friend  to  console  him, — lay  this 
helpless  mortal,  who  had  been  so  long  the  terror  and  wonder 
of  the  village.  His  dog  was  crouching  on  the  scanty  cover- 
let, and  shivering  with  cold.  My  grandfather  stepped  softly 
and  hesitatingly  to  the  bed-side,  and  accosted  the  '  forlorn 
sufferer  in  his  usual  accents  of  kindness. 

*  Pron.  forbad. 


80  NATIONAL  READER. 

The  little  man  in  black  seemed  recalled,  by  the  tones  of 
compassion,  from  the  lethargy  into  which  he  had  fallen  ;  for, 
though  his  heart  was  almost  frozen,  there  was  yet  one  chord 
that  answered  to  the  call  of  the  good  old  man  who  bent  over 
him :  the  tones  of  sympathy,  so  novel  to  his  ear,  called  back 
his  wandering  senses,  and  acted  like  a  restorative  to  his  soli- 
tary feelings. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  but  they  were  vacant  and  haggard  : — 
he  put  forth  his  hand,  but  it  was  cold : — he  essayed  to 
speak,  but  the  sound  died  away  in  his  throat : — he  pointed 
to  his  mouth,  with  an  expression  of  dreadful  meaning,  and, 
sad  to  relate !  my  grandfather  understood,  that  the  harmless 
stranger,  deserted  by  society,  was  perishing  with  hunger. 
With  the  quick  impulse  of  humanity,  he  despatched  the 
servant  to  the  Hall  for  refreshment.  A  little  warm  nourish- 
ment renovated  him  for  a  short  time,  but  not  long : — it  was 
evident  that  his  pilgrimage  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  he 
was  about  entering  that  peaceful  asy'lum,  where  "  the  wicked 
ceasp.  from  troubling." 

His  tale  of  misery  was  short,  and  quickly  told.  Infirmi- 
ties had  stolen  upon  him,  heightened  by  the  rigours  of  the 
season : — he  had  taken  to  his  bed,  without  strength  to  rise 
and  ask  for  assistance  : — "  And  if  I  had,"  said  he,  in  a  tone 
of  bitter  despondency,  "  to  whom  should  I  have  applied  ?  1 
have  no  friend,  that  I  know  of,  in  the  world  !  The  villagers 
ovoid  me  as  something  loathsome  and  dangerous  ;  and  here, 
in  the  midst  of  Christians,  should  I  have  perished  without  a 
fellow  being  to  soothe  the  last  moments  of  existence,  and 
close  my  dying  eyes,  had  not  the  howlings  of  my  faithful 
dog  excited  your  attention." 

He  seemed  deeply  sensible  of  the  kindness  of  my  grand- 
father ;  and,  at  one  time,  as  he  looked  up  into  his  old  bene- 
factor's face,  a  solitary  tear  was  observed  to  steal  adown  the 
parched  furrows  of  his  cheek.  Poor  outcast !  It  was  the 
last  tear  he  shed ; — but,  I  warrant,  it  was  not  the  first,  by 
millions. 

My  grandfather  watched  him  all  night.  Towards  morn- 
ing he  gradually  declined ;  and,  as  the  rising  sun  gleamed 
through  the  window,  he  begged  to  be  raised  in  his  bed,  that 
he  might  look  at  it  for  the  last  time.  He  contemplated  it  a 
moment  with  a  kind  of  religious  enthusiasm,  and  his  lips 
moved  as  if  engaged  in  prayer.  The  strange  conjectures 
concerning  him  rushed  on  my  grandfather's  mind : — "  He  is 
an  idolater,"  thought  he,  "  and  is  worshipping  the  suu." 


NATIONAL  READER.  SI 

He  listened  a  moment,  and  blushed  at  his  own  uncharitable 
suspicion.  He  was  only  engaged  in  the  pious  devotions  of 
a  l>nstian. 

His  simple  or'ison  being  finished,  the  little  mm  in  black 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  east,  and,  taking  my  grandfather 
by  the  hand,  and  making  a  motion  with  the  other  towards 
the  sun, — "  I  love  to  contemplate  it,"  said  he  :  "  it  is  an  em- 
blem of  the  universal  benevolence  of  a  true  Christian  ; — and 
it  is  the  most  glorious  wojk  of  Him  who  is  philanthro- 
py itself."  My  grandfather  blushed  still  deeper  at  his 
ungenerous  surmises.  He  had  pitied  the  stranger  at  first ; 
but  now  he  revered  him.  He  turned  once  more  to  regard 
him,  but  his  countenance  had  undergone  a  change : — the 
holy  enthusiasm,  that  had  lighted  up  each  feature,  had  given 
place  to  an  expression  of  mysterious  import : — a  gleam  of 
grandeur  seemed  to  steal  across  his  Gothic  visage,  and  he 
appeared  full  of  some  mighty  secret  which  he  hesitated  to 
impart. 

He  raised  his  tattered  night-cap,  which  had  sunk  almost 
over  his  eyes ;  and,  waving  his  withered  hand  with  a  slow 
and  feeble  expression  of  dignity — "  In  me,"  said  he,  with 
laconic  solemnity, — "  In  me  you  behold  the  last  descendant 
of  the  renowned  Linkum  Fidelias  !" — My  grandfather  gazed 
at  him  with  reverence ;  for,  though  he  had  never  heard  of 
the  illustrious  personage,  thus  pompously  announced,  yet 
there  was  a  certain  black-letter  dignity  in  the  name,  that 
peculiarly  struck  his  fancy,  and  commanded  his  respect. 

"  You  have  been  kind  to  me," — continued  the  little  man 
in  black,  after  a  momentary  pause, — "  and  richly  will  I  re- 
quite your  kindness  by  making  you  heir  of  my  treasures  ! 
In  yonder  large  deal  box  are  the  volumes  of  my  illustrious 
ancestor,  of  which  I  alone  am  the  fortunate  possessor.  In- 
herit them  : — ponder  over  them,  and  be  wise." 

He  grew  faint  with  the  exertion  he  had  made,  and  sunk 
back,  almost  breathless,  on  his  pillow.  His  hand,  which, 
inspired  with  the  importance  of  the  subject,  he  had  raised  to 
my  grandfather's  arm,  slipped  from  his  hold,  and  fell  over  the 
side  of  the  bed  ;  and  his  faithful  dog  licked  it,  as  if  anxious 
to  soothe  the  last  moments  of  his  master,  and  testify  his 
gratitude  to  the  hand  that  hatl  so  often  cherished  him. 

The  untaught  caresses  of  the  faithful  animal  were  not 
lost  upon  his  dying  master.  He  raised  his  languid  eyes, — 
turned  them  on  the  dog, — then  on  my  grandfather, — and,  hav- 
ing given  this  silent  recommendation,— -closed  them  forever. 


82  NATIONAL  READER. 

The  remains  of  the  little  man  in  black,  notwithstanding 
the  objections  of  many  pious  people,  were  decently  interred 
in  the  church-yard  of  the  village  : — and  his  spirit,  harmless 
as  the  body  it  once  animated,  has  never  been  known  to 
molest  a  living  being.  My  grandfather  complied,  as  far  as 

E3ssible,  with  his  request.     He   conveyed  the  volumes  of 
inkum  Fidelius  to   his  library :  he  pondered  over  them 
frequently  : — but  whether  he  grew  wiser,  the  tradition  does 
not  mention. 

This  much  is  certain,  that  his  kindness  to  the  poor  de- 
scendant of  Fidelius  was  amply  rewarded  by  the  approbation 
of  his  own  heart,  and  the  devoted  attachment  of  the  old 
turnspit ;  who,  transferring  his  affection  from  his  deceased 
master  to  his  benefactor,  became  his  constant  attendant,  and 
was  father  to  a  long  line  of  runty  curs,  that  still  flourish  in 
the  family.  And  thus  was  the  Cockloft  library  first  enriched 
by  the  valuable  folios  of  the  sage  Linkum  Fidelius. 


LESSON   XL. 

Danger  of  being  a  good  Singer. — LONDON  LITERARY 
CHRONICLE. 

ONE  of  the  pithy  remarks  in  Lacon,  though  I  cannot 
remember  the  precise  words,  amounts  to  this  ;  that  any  man, 
who  is  an  excellent  amateur'  singer,  and  reaches  the  age  of 
thirty,  without,  in  some  way  or  other,  feeling  the  ruinous 
effects  of  it,  is  an  extraordinary^  man.  "  True  it  is,  and 
pity  'tis  'tis  true,"  that  a  quality  so  pleasing,  and  one  that 
might  be  so  innocent  and  so  amiable,  is  often,  through  the 
weakness  of  "  poor  human  nature,"  converted  into  a  bane, — a 
very  pest, — and  occasions  it  to  be  remarked,  when  this  mise- 
rable result  occurs,  that  a  man  had  better  croak  like  a  frog, 
than  be  a  good  singer. 

That  the  ruin  too  frequently  occasioned  by  a  man's  being 
a  good  vocalist,  arises  from  want  of  resolution,  and  from  his 
inability  to  say  no,  when  invited  to  a  feast;  or,  when  there, 
to  use  the  same  denying  monosyllable,  when  pressed  to  take 
another  glass,  and  then — what  then  ? — why,  another ;  can- 
not be  denied ;  and  that  such  is  the  manifest  and  frequent 
consequence,  he  who  runs  may  read  ! 

A  few  mornings  ago,  I  was  accidentally  reading  the  Morn- 

*  Pron.  ex-tror'-de-ner-e. 


NATIONAL  READER.  83 

ing  Herald,  in  the  committee-room,  when  my  attention  was 
roused  by  a  sort  of  debate  at  the  table,  between  the  presid- 
ing overseer,  the  master  of  the  workhouse,  and  a  pauper, 
who  wanted  permission  to  go  out  for  a  hol'yday.  On  raising 
my  head,  I  discovered,  in  the  pauper,  a  young  man,  rather 
above  thirty,  to  describe  whose  carbuncled  face  would  be 
impossible,  and  whose  emaciated  appearance  bespoke  pre- 
mature decay,  and  the  grossest  intemperance  ;  whilst  the 
faculties  of  his  mind  were  evidently  shown,  by  his  conver- 
sation, to  be  as  impaired  as  his  body. 

To  my  surprise,  I  discovered,  in  this  shadow  of  a  man, 
one  who  had  been,  but  a  very  few  years  prior  to  this,  in  a 
good  business,  from  which  his  father  had  retired  with  a  com- 
fortable fortune,  and  who  is  still  living  reputably  in  one  of 
the  villages  adjoining  the  metropolis.  At  the  time  I  speak 
of,  I  frequently  met  this  young  man  at  the  Freemasons',  the 
Crown  and  Anchor,  and  other  taverns,  where  public  dinners 
are  held,  and  where  he  was  always  hailed  with  rapture,  as  a 
second  Braham ;  and  he  really  sung  very  delightfully ;  but 
he  could  not  stand  the  flattery  attendant  on  it,  and  the  hard 
drinking,  which  he  thought  necessary,  poor  fellow,  but 
which  is  well  known  to  be  a  singer's  greatest  enemy. 

He  frequently  attended  two  or  three  dinners  in  one  day ; 
and,  in  short,  he  altogether  verified  the  old  proverb  of  "  a 
short  life  and  a  merry  one ;"  and,  descending  in  the  scale 
of  society,  step  by  step,  he  exchanged  his  elegant  tavern 
dining  for  evening  clubs  and  free-and-easys,  till,  ejected 
from  the  public-house  parlour,  he  sunk  into  a  frequent'er  of 
common  tap-rooms,  and  an  associater  with  the  vilest  of  the 
vile, — he  cared  not  whom,— and,  provided  he  could  get  liquor 
to  drink,  he  cared  not  what. 

His  business  had  been  entirely  lost,  long  before  this  utter 
degradation  ;  though  his  friends  had,  from  time  to  time,  with 
great  sacrifices,  upheld  him ;  and  he  was,  at  the  period 
spoken  of,  a  pensioner  on  their  bounty,  and  on  the  occa- 
sional treats  still  procured  by  his  failing  voice  ;  till,  at  length, 
finding  he  was  attacked  by  a  grim  disease,  and  having 
become  so  lost  to  all  decency  of  feeling  as  to  make  it  impos- 
sible for  his  friends  to  take  him  into  their  houses,  the  parish 
workhouse  was- his  only  resource,  where  he  is  now  paid  tor 
by  those  friends ;  an  older  man  in  constitution  than  his 
father,  though  still,  by  age,  he  ought  to  be  numbered  with 
our  youths. 

After  he  had  left  the  room,  the  overseer  told  me  that, 


8  NATIONAL  READER. 

although,  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  refuse  this 
lost  being  his  reqaest,  yet  he  knew  that  he  would  only  go 
begging  round  among  his  old  friends  and  acquaintances,  the 
consequence  of  which  would,  in  all  probability,  be  several 
days  of  intoxication  before  his  return,  when  he  would  again 
come  into  the  workhouse,  in  the  same  sickly  state,  from 
which,  by  good  care  and  attention,  he  had  been  greatly  re- 
lieved. 

Let  this  communication,  every  syllable  of  which  is  true, 
sink  deeply  into  the  hearts  of  all  my  young  male  readers, 
who  are  just  entering  into  life,  and  who  may  happen  to  have 
tolerable  voices.  Singing  is  an  elegant,  but,  as  I  have  shown, 
a  dangerous  accomplishment.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  assert, 
that  there  are  not  many  good  singers,  both  public  and  pri- 
vate, who  are  prudent  men.  I  have  only  sketched,  feebly 
indeed,  and  slightly,  what  has  been  the  result  of  musical 
talent  of  this  sort,  and  what,  therefore,  may  be  the  result 
again  ;  and  I  have  good  reason  to  know,  that  a  fate,  similar 
to  the  one  I  have  related,  has  befallen  many  a  man  besides 
him  of  whom  I  have  been  writing,  whose  youthful  pride 
has  been  to  be  called  a  good  singer. 


LESSON  XLI. 

The  Country  Clergyman. — GOLDSMITH. 

NEAH  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich,  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place  : 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour : 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, — 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  ri 

His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  j 
He  chid  their  wanderings  but  relieved  their  pain. 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breasts 


NATIONAL  READER.  55 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed : 
*f  he  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade^  to  stay, 
Satet  by  his  fire1  and  talked  the  night  away ; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  wo  ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  even  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side : 
But,  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for  all : 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries, 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down,  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last,  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  Hnnhle  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  returned  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran : 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile; 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed : 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Bwells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

*  Pron  bad,  t  Pron.  sat. 

8 


86  NATIONAL  HEADER. 

LESSON  XLII. 

Parody*  on  the  preceding. — BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 

NEAR  where  yon  brook  flows  babbling  through  the  dell, 
From  whoso  green  bank  those  upland  meadows  swell, 
See  where  the  rector's  splendid  mansion  stands, 
Embosomed  deep  in  new-enclosed  lands, — 
Lands  wrested  from  the  indigent  and  poor, 
Because,  forsooth,  he  holds  the  village  cure.t 
A  man  is  he  whom  all  his  neighbours  fear, 
Litigious,  haughty,  greedy,  and  severe ; 
And  starving,  with  a  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

'Midst  crowds  and  sports  he  passed  his  youthful  prime ; 
Retirement,  had,  with  him.,  been  deemed  a  crime  : 
When  the  young  blood  danced  joc'und  through  his  veins, 
'Tis  said  his  sacred  stolet  received  some  stains. 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour, 
B}  friends,  or  fawning,  he  lays  claim  to  power : 
For,  three  fat  livings  own  his  goodly  sway ; 
Two  wretched  curates  starve  upon  his  pay. 

Celestial  Charity,  that  heavenly  guest, 
Could  ne'er  find  entrance  to  his  close-locked  breast 
The  common  vagrants  pass  his  well-known  gate 
With  terror's  hasty  step,  and  looks  of  hate  ; 
For  well  they  know  the  suffering  poor  he  mocks  ; 
Their  wants  are  promised  Bridewell!!  or  the  stocks. 
The  soldier,  seamed  with  honourable  scars, 
The  sailor,  hasting  from  his  country's  wars, 
In  vain  to  him  may  tell  their  wo-fraught  tale ; 
Their  wounds,  their  eloquence,  may  not  prevail : 
Though,  by  their  valour,  he  in  peace  remains, 
He  never  gives  a  mite,  to  soothe  the  wanderers'  pains. 

Thus  to  depress  the  wretched  is  his  pride ; 
His  seeming  virtues  are  to  vice  allied ; 
Backward  to  duty,  hateful  to  his  ears 
Sound  the  church  bells  to  summon  him  to  prayers ; 

*  Parody; — A  kind  of  writing,  in  which  the  words  of  an  author,  or  bis 
thoughts,  are  taken,  and,  by  a  slight  change,  adapted  to  some  other  subjocU 
t  Cure ; — The  office  or  employment  of  a  curate  or  clergyman, 
t  Stole; — A  long  robe  worn  by  the  clergy  in  England. 
{]  Bridewell; — A  house  of  correction. 


NATIONAL  READER.  87 

And,  like  the  wolf  that  stole  into  the  fold, 
And  slew  the  sheep,  in  woolly  vestments  rolled. 
Still  bent  on  gain,  he  watcheth  night  and  day, 
To  rend  and  make  God's  heritage  his  prey. 

Called  to  the  bed  where  parting  life  is  laid, 
With  what  reluctance  is  the  call  obeyed ! 
A  few  brief  prayers  in  haste  he  mutters  o'er, 
For  time  is  precious,  and  the  sick  man  poor  ; 
Fancy,  even  now,  depictures  to  his  eye 
Some  neighbour's  pigs  forth- issuing  from  the  sty, 
Whose  wicked  snouts  his  new-formed  banks  uproot 
Close  in  the  ditch,  and  lop  the  hawthorn  shoot. 
Full  many  a  luckless  hog,  in  morning  round, 
He  drives,  deep  grunting,  to  the  starving  pound. 

When  in  the  church,  that  venerable  place, 
A  sullen  frown  o'erspreads  his  haughty  face : 
A  preacher's  frown  conviction  should  impart, 
But  oft  his  smile  should  cheer  the  drooping  heart. 
He  blunders  through  the  prayers  with  hasty  will, — 
A  school-boy  would  be  whipped  who  read  so  ill, — 
Then  mounts  the  pulpit  with  a  haughty  mien, 
Where  more  of  pride  than  godliness  is  seen ; 
Some  fifteen  minutes  his  discourse  will  last, 
And  thus  the  business  of  the  week  is  past. 

The  service  o'er,  no  friendly  rustics  run 
To  shake  his  hand ;  his  steps  the  children  shun  ; 
None  for  advice  or  comfort  round  him  press, 
Their  joys  would  charm  not,  nor  their  cares  distress ; 
To  notice  them  they  know  he's  all  too  proud ; 
His  liveried  lackeys  spurn  the  village  crowd. 
When  for  the  mourner  heaved  his  breast  the  sigh ! 
When  did  compassion  trickle  from  his  eye ! 
Careless  is  he  if  weal  or  wo  betide, 
If  dues  and  tithes  be  punctually  supplied. 

Such  is  the  man  blind  chance,  not  God,  hath  given 
To  be  the  guide  of  humble  souls  to  heaven. 
To  preach  of  heaven  he'll  sometimes  condescend, 
But  all  his  views  and  wishes  earthward  tend. 
Like  a  tall  guide-post,  towering  o'er  the  way, 
Whose  lettered  arms  the  traveller's  route  display, 
Fixed  to  one  spot,  it  stands  upon  the  down, 
Its  hand  still  pointing  to  the  distant  town. 


83  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  XLIII. 

Elegy  on  Mrs.  Mary  Blaize. — GOLDSMITH. 

GOOD  people  all,  with  one  accord, 
Lament  for  Madam  Blaize ; 

Who  never  wanted  a  good  word — 
From  those  who  spoke  her  praise. 

The  needy  seldom  passed  her  door, 
And  always  found  her  kind ; 

She  freely  lent  to  all  the  poor — 
Who  left  a  pledge  behind. 

She  strove  the  neighbourhood  to  please 
With  manner  wonderous  winning; 

And  never  followed  wicked  ways—- 
Unless when  she  was  sinning. 

At  church,  in  silks  and  satins  new, 
With  hoop  of  monstrous  size, 

She  never  slumbered  in  her  pew — 
But  when  she  shut  her  eyes. 

Her  love  was  sought,  I  do  aver, 
By  twenty  beaux,  and  more  ; 

The  king  himself  has  followed  her — 
When  she  has  walked  before. 

But  now,  her  wealth  and  finery  fled, 
Her  hangers-on  cut  short  all, 

Her  doctors  found,  when  she  was  dead — 
Her  last  disorder  mortal. 

Let  us  lament,  in  sorrow  sore  ; 
For  Kent-Street  well  may  say, 

That,  had  she  lived  a  twelvemonth  more- 
She  had  not  died  to-day. 


NATIONAL  READER.  89 

LESSON  XLIV. 

The  sick  Man  and  the  Angel.—  GAY. 

"  Is  there  no  hope  ?"  the  sick  man  said : 
The  silent  doctor  shook  his  head  ; 
And  took  his  leave  with  signs  of  sorrow, 
Despairing  of  his  fee  to-morrow. 
When  thus  the  man,  with  gasping  breath  : 
"  I  feel  the  chilling  hand  of  death. 
Since  I  must  hid  the  world  adieu, 
Let  me  my  former  life  review. 
I  grant  my  bargains  were  well  made ; 
But  all  men  over-reach  in  trade. 
'Tis  self-defence  in  each  profession : 
Sure  self-defence  is  no  transgression. 

"  The  little  portion  in  my  hands, 
By  good  security  on  lands, 
Is  well  increased.     If,  unawares, 
My  justice  to  myself  and  heirs 
Hath  let  my  debtor  rot  in  jail, 
For  want  of  good  sufficient  bail ; 
If  I,  by  writ,  or  bond,  or  deed, 
Reduced  a  family  to  need ; 
My  will  hath  made  the  world  amends  : 
My  hope  on  charity  depends. 
When  I  am  numbered  with  the  dead, 
And  all  my  pious  gifts  are  read, 
By  heaven  and  earth !  'twill  then  be  known, 
My  charities  were  amply  shown." 

An  Angel  came.     "  Ah  !  friend,"  he  cried 
"  No  more  in  flattering  hopes  confide  : 
Can  thy  good  deeds,  in  former  times, 
Outweigh  the  balance  of  thy  crimes  ? 
What  widow  or  what  orphan  prays 
To  crown  thy  life  with  length  of  days  ? — 
A  pious  action's  in  thy  power : 
Embrace  with  joy  the  happy  hour. 
Now,  while  you  draw  the  vital  air, 
Prove  your  intention  is  sincere  : 
This  instant  give  a  hundred  pound : 
Your  neighbours  want  and  you  abound." 
S* 


NATIONAL  READER. 

"  But  why  such  haste  ?"  the  sick  man  whines, 
"Who  knows  as  yet  what  heaven  designs ! 
Perhaps  I  may  recover  still : 
That  sum.,  and  more,  are  in  my  will." 

"Fool  !"  says  the  Vision,  "now  'tis  plain, 
Your  life,  your  soul,  your  heaven,  was  gain : 
From  every  side,  with  all  your  might, 
You  scraped,  and  scraped  beyond  your  right ; 
And,  after  death,  would  fain  atone, 
By  giving  what  is  not  your  own." 
"  While  there  is  life,  there's  hope,"  he  cried : 
"Then  why  such  haste?"  so  groaned  and  died. 


LESSON  XLV. 

The  Voice  of  the  Seasons. — ALISON. 

THERE  is,  in  the  revolution  of  time,  a  kind  of  warning 
voice,  which  summons  us  to  thought  and  reflection  ;  and 
every  season,  as  it  arises,  speaks  to  us  of  the  analogous  cha- 
racter which  we  ought  to  maintain.  From  the  first  open- 
ings of  the  spring,  to  the  last  desolation  of  winter,  the  days 
of  the  year  are  emblematic  of  the  state  and  of  the  duties  of 
man;  and,  whatever  may  be  the  period  of  our  journey,  we 
can  scarcely  look  up  into  the  heavens,  and  mark  the  path 
of  the  sun,  without  feeling  either  something  to  animate  us 
upon  our  course,  or  to  reprove  us  for  our  delay. 

When  the  spring  appears,  when  the  earth  is  covered  with 
its  tender  green,  and  the  song  of  happiness  is  heard  in  every 
shade,  it  is  a  call  to  us  to  religious  hope  and  joy.  Over  the 
infant  year  the  breath  of  heaven  seems  to  blow  with  pater- 
nal softness,  and  the  heart  of  man  willingly  partakes  in  the 
joyfulness  of  awakened  nature. 

When  summer  reigns,  and  every  element  is  filled  with 
life,  and  the  sun,  like  a  giant,  pursues  his  course  through 
the  firmament  above,  it  is  the  season  of  adoration.  We 
see  there,  as  it  were,  the  majesty  of  the  present  God;  and, 
wherever  we  direct  our  eye,  the  glory  of  the  Lord  seems  to 
cover  the  earth  as  the  waters  cover  the  sea. 

When  autumn  comes,  and  the  annual  miracle  of  nature  is 
completed,  it  is  the  appropriate  season  of  thankfulness  and 
praise.  The  heart  bends  with  instinctive  gratitude  before 


NATIONAL  READER.  91 

Him,  whose  benevolence  neither  slumbers  nor  sleeps,  and 
who,  from  the  throne  of  glory,  yet  rernembereth  the  things 
that  are  in  heaven  and  earth. 

The  season  of  winter  has  also  similar  instructions.  To 
the  thoughtful  and  the  feeling  mind  it  comes  not  without  a 
blessing  upon  its  wings ;  and  perhaps  the  noblest  lessons  of 
religion  are  to  be  learned  amid  its  clouds  and  storms. 


LESSON  XL VI. 

Anecdote  of  Richard  Jackson. — LONDON  QUARTERLY  REVIEW. 

DURING  the  war  of  independence  in  North  America,  a 
plain  farmer,  Richard  Jackson  by  name,  was  apprehended, 
under  such  circumstances  as  proved,  beyond  all  doubt,  his 
purpose  of  joining  the  king's  forces ;  an  intention  which  he 
was  too  honest  to  deny ;  accordingly,  he  was  delivered  over 
to  the  high  sheriff,  and  committed  to  the  county  jail.  The 
prison  was  in  such  a  state,  that  he  might  have  found  little 
difficulty  in  escaping ;  but  he  considered  himself  as  in  the 
hands  of  authority,  such  as  it  was,  and  the  same  principle 
of  duty,  which  led  him  to  take  arms,  made  him  equally 
ready  to  endure  the  consequences. 

After  lying  there  a  few  days,  he  applied  to  the  sheriff  for 
leave  to  go  out  and  work  by  day,  promising  that  he  would 
return  regularly  at  night.  His  character  for  simple  integrity 
was  so  well  known,  that  permission  was  given  without  hesi- 
tation ;  and,  for  eight  months,  Jackson  went  out  every  day 
to  labour,  and  as  duly  came  back  to  prison  at  night.  In  the 
month  of  May,  the  sheriff  prepared  to  conduct  him  to  Spring- 
field, where  he  was  to  be  tried  for  high  treason.  Jackson 
said,  this  would  be  a  needless  trouble  and  expense;  he  could 
save  the  sheriff  both,  and  go  just  as  well  by  himself. 

His  word  was  once  more  taken,  and  he  set  off  alone,  to 
present  himself  for  trial  and  certain  condemnation.  On  the 
way  he  was  overtaken  in  the  woods  by  Mr.  Edwards-  a 
member  of  the  council  of  Massachusetts,  which,  at  thnt  time, 
was  the  supreme  executive  of  the  state.  This  gentleman 
asked  him  whither  he  was  going.  "To  Springfield,  sir," 
was  his  answer,  "to  be  tried  for  my  life."  To  this  casual 
interview  Jackson  owed  his  escape,  when,  having  been  found 
guilty,  and  condemned  to  death,  application  was  made  to 
the  council  for  mercy. 


92  NATIONAL  READER. 

The  evidence  and  the  sentence  were  stated,  and  the  pre- 
sident put  the  question,  whether  a  pardon  should  be  granted. 
It  was  opposed  by  the  first  speaker :  the  case,  he  said,  was 
perfectly  clear;  the  act  was  unquestionably  high  treason, 
and  the  proof  complete ;  and  if  mercy  was  shown  in  this 
case,  he  saw  no  reason  why  it  should  not  be  granted  in 
every  other. 

Few  governments  have  understood  how  just  and  politic  it 
is  to  be  merciful :  this  hard-hearted  opinion  accorded  with 
the  temper  of  the  times,  and  was  acquiesced  in  by  one  mem- 
ber after  another,  till  it  came  to  Mr.  Edwards'  turn  to  speak. 
Instead  of  delivering  his  opinion,  he  simply  related  the 
whole  story  of  Jackson's  singular  demeanour,  and  what  had 
passed  between  them  in  the  woods. 

For  the  honour  of  Massachusetts,  and  of  human  nature, 
not  a  man  was  found  to  weaken  its  effect  by  one  of  those 
dry,  legal  remarks,  which,  like  a  blast  of  the  desert,  wither 
the  heart  they  reach.  The  council  began  to  hesitate,  and, 
when  a  member  ventured  to  say,  that  such  a  man  certainly 
ought  not  to  be  sent  to  the  gallows,  a  natural  feeling  of 
humanity  and  justice  prevailed,  and  a  pardon  was  imme- 
diately made  out. 

Never  was  a  stronger  proof  exhibited  that  honesty  is  wis- 
dom. And  yet,  it  was  not  the  man's  honesty,  but  his  child- 
like simplicity,  which  saved  his  life  ;  without  that  simplicity 
his  integrity  would  have  availed  him  little ;  in  fact,  it  was 
his  crime ;  for  it  was  for  doing  what,  according  to  the  prin- 
ciples wherein  he  had  been  born  and  bred,  he  believed  to  be 
his  duty,  that  he  was  brought  to  trial  and  condemned. — 
This  it  is  which  renders  civil  and  religious  wars  so  peculiar- 
ly dreadful ;  and,  in  the  history  of  such  wars,  every  incident, 
which  serves  to  reconcile  us  to  humanity,  ought  carefully  to 
be  preserved. 


LESSON  XL VII. 

Falls  of  Niag'ara. — HOWISON, 

THE  form  of  Niagara  Falls  is  that  of  an  irregular  semi- 
circle,^ about  three  quarters  of  a  mile  in  extent.     This  is 

.  *  Pron.  sem'-e-ser  Id. 


NATIONAL  READER.  93 

divided  into  two  distinct  cascades  by  the  intervention  of 
Goat  Island,  the  extremity  of  which  is  perpendicular,  and 
in  a  line  with  the  precipice,  over  which  the  water  is  pro- 
jected. The  cataract  on  the  Canada  side  of  the  river  is 
called  the  Horseshoe,  or  Great  Fall,  from  its  peculiar  form  ; 
and  that  next  the  United  States,  the  American  Fall. 

Three  extensive  views  of  the  Falls  may  be  obtained  from 
three  different  places.  In  general,  the  first  opportunity  tra- 
vellers have  of  seeing  the  cataract  is  from  the  high-road, 
which,  at  one  point,  lies  near  the  bank  of  the  river.  This 
place,  however,  being  considerably  above  the  level  of  the 
Falls,  and  a  good  way  beyond  them,  affords  a  view  that  is 
comparatively  imperfect  and  un imposing. 

The  Table  Rock,  from  which  the  Falls  of  the  Niagara  may 
be  contemplated  in  all  their  grandeur,  lies  on  an  exact  level 
with  the  edge  of  the  cataract  on  the  Canada  side,  and  indeed 
forms  a  part  of  the  precipice,  over  which  the  water  rushes. 
It  derives  its  name  from  the  circumstance  of  its  projecting 
beyond  the  cliffs  that  support  it,  like  the  leaf  of  a  table.  To 
gain  this  position,  it  is  necessary  to  descend  a  steep  bank, 
and  to  follow  a  path  that  winds  among  shrubbery  and  trees, 
which  entirely  conceal  from  the  eye  the  scene  that  awaits 
him  who  traverses  it. 

When  near  the  termination  of  this  road,  a  few  steps  car- 
ried me  beyond  all  these  obstructions,  and  a  magnificent 
amphitheatre  of  cataracts  burst  upon  my  view  with  appalling 
suddenness  and  majesty.  However,  in  a  moment,  the  scene 
was  concealed  from  my  eyes  by  a  dense  cloud  of  spray, 
which  involved  me  so  completely,  that  I  did  not  dare  to  ex- 
tricate myself. 

A  mingled  and  thundering  rushing  filled  my  ears.  I  could 
see  nothing,  except  when  the  wind  made  a  chasm  in  the 
spray,  and  then  tremendous  cataracts  seemed  to  encompass 
me  on  every  side  ;  while,  below,  a  raging  and  foamy  gulf,  of 
undiscoverable  extent,  lashed  the  rocks  with  its  hissing 
waves,  and  swallowed,  under  a  horrible  obscurity,  the  smok- 
ing floods  that  were  precipitated  into  its  bosom. 

At  first  the  sky  was  obscured  by  clouds,  but,  after  a  few 
minutes,  the  sun  burst  forth,  and  the  breeze,  subsiding  at 
the  same  time;  permitted  the  spray  to  ascend  perpendicu- 
larly. A  host  of  pyram'idal  clouds  rose  majestically,  one 
after  another,  from,  the  abyss  at  the  bottom  of  the  Fall ;  arid 
each,  when  it  had  ascended  a  little  above  the  edge  of  the 
cataract,  displayed  a  beautiful  rainbow,  which,  in  a  few 

t  >     **t    I 
«-  V    ,    $  . 

V  *      k  ^  I 


94  NATIONAL  READER. 

moments,  was  gradually  transferred  into  the  bosom  of  the 
cloud  that  immediately  succeeded. 

The  spray  of  the  Great  Fall  had  extended  itself  through 
a  wide  space  directly  over  me,  and,  receiving  the  full  influ- 
ence of  the  sun,  exhibited  a  luminous  and  magnificent  rain- 
bow, which  continued  to  overarch  and  irradiate  the  spot  on 
which  I  stood,  while  I  enthusiastically  contemplated  the 
indescribable  scene. 

Any  person,  who  has  nerve  enough,  may  plunge  his  hand 
into  the  water  of  the  Great  Fall,  after  it  is  projected  over  the 
precipice,  merely  by  lying  down  fiat,  with  his  face  beyond 
the  edge  of  the  Table  Rock,  and  stretching  out  his  arm  to 
its  utmost  extent.  The  experiment  is  truly  a  horrible  one, 
and  such  as  I  would  not  wish  to  repeat;  for,  even  to  this 
day,  I  feel  a  shuddering  and  recoiling  sensation  when  I  re- 
collect having  been  in  the  posture  above  described. 

The  body  of  water,  which  composes  the  middle  part  of 
the  Great  Fall,  is  so  immense,  that  it  descends  nearly  two- 
'  thirds  of  the  space  without  being  ruffled  or  broken ;  and  the 
solemn  calmness,  with  which  it  rolls  over  the  edge  of  the 
precipice,  is  finely  contrasted  with  the  perturbed  appearance 
it  assumes  after  having  reached  the  gulf  below.  But  the 
water,  towards  each  side  of  the  Fall,  is  shattered  the  moment 
it  drops  over  the  rock,  and  loses,  as  it  descends,  in  a  great 
measure,  the  character  of  a  fluid,  being  divided  into  pyram'- 
idal-shaped  fragments,  the  bases  of  which  are  turned  up- 
wards. 

The  surface  of  the  gulf,  below  the  cataract,  presents  a 
very  singular  aspect ;  seeming,  as  it  were,  filled  with  an  im- 
mense quantity  of  hoar  frost,  which  is  agitated  by  small  and 
rapid  undulations.  The  particles  of  water  are  dazzlingly 
white,  and  do  not  apparently  unite  together,  as  might  be 
supposed,  but  seem  to  continue  for  a  time  in  a  state  of 
distinct  comminution,  and  to  repel  each  other  with  a 
thrilling  and  shivering  motion,  which  cannot  easily  be  de- 
scribed. 

The  road  to  the  bottom  of  the  Fall  presents  many  more 
difficulties  than  that  which  leads  to  the  Table  Rock.  After 
leaving  the  Table  Rock,  the  traveller  must  proceed  down 
the  river  nearly  half  a  mile,  where  he  will  come  to  a  small 
chasm  in  the  bank,  in  which  there  is  q.  spiral  staircase  en- 
closed in  a  wooden  building.  By  descending  the  stair, 
which  is  seventy  or  eighty  feet  perpendicular  height,  he 
will  find  himself  under  the  precipice,  on  the  top  of  which 


NATIONAL  HEADER  95 

he  formerly  walked.  A  high  but  sloping  hank  extends  from 
its  hase  to  the  edge  of  the  river  ;  and,  on  the  summit  of  this, 
there  is  a  narrow,  slippery  path,  covered  with  angular  frag- 
ments of  rock,  which  leads  to  the  Great  Fall. 

The  impending  cliffs,  hung  with  a  profusion  of  trees  and 
brushwood,  overarch  this  road,  and  seem  to  vibrate  with  the 
thunders  of  the  cataract.  In  some  places  they  rise  abruptly 
to  the  height  of  one  hundred  feet,  and  display,  upon  their 
surfaces,  fossil  shells,  and  the  organic  remains  of  a  former 
world ;  thus  sublimely  leading  the  mind  to  contemplate  the 
convulsions  which  nature  has  undergone  since  the  crea- 
tion. 

As  the  traveller  advances,  he  is  frightfully  stunned  by  the 
appalling  noise ;  clouds  of  spray  sometimes  envelope  him, 
and  suddenly  check  his  faltering  steps  ;  rattlesnakes  start 
from  the  cavities  of  the  rocks ;  and  the  scream  of  eagles, 
soaring  among  the  whirlwinds  of  eddying  vapour,  which 
obscure  the  gulf  of  the  cataract,  at  intervals  announces  that 
the  raging  waters  have  hurled  some  bewildered  animal  over 
the  precipice.  After  scrambling  among  piles  of  huge  rocks 
that  obstruct  his  way,  the  traveller  gains  the  bottom  of  the 
Fall,  where  the  soul  can  be  susceptible  only  of  one  emo- 
tion,— that  of  uncontrollable  terror. 

It  was  not  until  I  had,  by  frequent  excursions  to  the  Falls, 
in  some  measure  familiarized  my  mind  with  their  sublimities, 
that  I  ventured  to  explore  the  recesses  of  the  Great  Cata- 
ract. The  precipice  over  which  it  rolls  is  very  much  arched 
underneath,  while  the  impetus,  which  the  water  receives  in 
its  descent,  projects  it  far  beyond  the  cliff,  and  thus  an  im- 
mense Gothic  arch  is  forrried  by  the  rock  and  the  torrent. 
Twice  I  entered  this  cavern,  and  twice  I  was  obliged  to 
retrace  my  steps,  lest  I  should  be  suffocated  by  the  blast  of 
dense  spray  that  whirled  around  me  :  however,  the  third 
time,  I  succeeded  in  advancing  about  twenty-five  yards. 

Here  darkness  began  to  encircle  me.  On  one  side,  the 
black  cliff  stretched  itself  into  a  gigantic  arch  far  above  my 
head,  and,  on  the  other,  the  dense  and  hissing  torrent  formed 
an  impenetrable  sheet  of  foam,  with  which  I  was  drenched 
in  a  moment.  The  rocks  were  so  slippery,  that  I  could 
hardly  keep  my  feet,  or  hold  securely  by  them ;  while  the 
horrid  din  made  me  think  the  precipices  above  were  tumbling 
down  in  colossal  fragments  upon  my  head.  ###•'# 

A  little  way  below  the  Great  Fall,  the  river  is,  compara- 
tively speaking,  30  tr  anquilj  that  %  ferry-boat  plies  between 


S6  NATlOJNAju   HEADER. 

the  Canada  and  American  shores,  for  the  convenience  of 
travellers.  When  I  first  crossed,  the  heaving  flood  tossed 
about  the  skiff  with  a  violence  that  seemed  very  alarming  j 
but,  as  soon  as  we  gained  the  middle  of  the  river,  my  atten-* 
tion  was  altogether  engaged  by  the  surpassing  grandeur  of 
the  scene  before  me. 

I  was  now  within  the  area  of  a  semicircle  of  cataracts 
more  than  three  thousand  feet  in  extent,  and  floated  on  the 
surface  of  a  gulf,  raging,  fathomless,  and  interminable.  Ma- 
jestic cliffs,  splendid  rainbows,  lofty  trees,  and  columns  of 
spray,  were  the  gorgeous  decorations  of  this  theatre  of  won- 
ders :  while  a  dazzling  sun  shed  refulgent  glories  upon  every 
part  of  the  scene. — Surrounded  with  clouds  of  vapour,  and 
stunned  into  a  state  of  confusion  and  terror  by  the  hideous 
noise,  I  looked  upwards  to  the  height  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  feet,  and  saw  vast  floods,  dense,  awful,  and  stupendous, 
vehemently  bursting  over  the  precipice,  and  rolling  down* 
as  if  the  windows  of  heaven  were  opened  to  pour  another 
deluge  upon  the  earth. 

Loud  sounds,  resembling  discharges  of  artillery  or  volca- 
nic explosions,  were  now  distinguishable  amidst  the  watery 
tumult,  and  added  terrors  to  the  abyss  from  which  they 
issued.  The  sun,  looking  majestically  through  the  ascend- 
ing spray,  was  encircled  by  a  radiant  halo  ;  while  fragments 
of  rainbows  floated  on  every  side,  and  momentarily  vanished, 
only  to  give  place  to  a  succession  of  others  more  brilliant. 

Looking  backwards,  I  saw  the  Niagara  River,  again  be- 
come calm  and  tranquil,  rolling  magnificently  between  the 
towering  cliffs,  that  rose  on  either  side.  A  gentle  breeze 
ruffled  the  waters,  and  beautiful  birds  fluttered  around,  as  if 
to  welcome  its  egress  from  those  clouds,  and  thunders,  and 
rainbows,  which  were  the  heralds  of  its  precipitation  into  the 
abyss  of  the  cataract. 


LESSON   XLVIIT. 

Niagara  Falls* 

TREMENDOUS  torrent !  for  an  instant  hush 
The  terrors  of  thy  voice,  and  cast  aside 

*  From  the  United  States  Reviev/  and  Literary  Gazette,  translated 
the  Spanish  of  Joss  MARIA  HEREDIA,  by  T.  T.  PAYNK. 


NATIONAL  READER.  97 

Those  wide-involving  shadows,  that  my  eyes 

May  see  the  fearful  beauty  of  thy  face ! 

I  am  not  all  unworthy  of  thy  sight ; 

For,  from  my  very  boyhood,  have  1  loved, — 

Shunning  the  meaner  track  of  common  minds, — 

To  look  on  nature  in  her  loftier  moods. 

At  the  fierce  rushing  of  the  hurricane, 

At  the  near  bursting  of  the  thunderbolt; 

I  have  been  touched  with  joy ;  and,  when  the  sea, 

Lashed  by  the  wind,  hath  rocked  my  bark,  and  showed 

Its  yawning  caves  beneath  me,  I  have  loved 

Its  dangers  and  the  wrath  of  elements. 

But  never  yet  the  madness  of  the  sea 

Hath  moved  me  as  thy  grandeur  moves  me  now. 

Thou  flowest  on  in  quiet,  till  thy  waves 
Grow  broken  'midst  the  rocks ;  thy  current  then 
Shoots  onward,  like  the  irresistible  course 
Of  destiny.     Ah  !  terribly  they  rage — 
The  hoarse  and  rapid  whirlpools  there  !     My  brain 
Grows  wild,  my  senses  wander,  as  I  gaze 
Upon  the  hurrying  waters,  and  my  sight 
Vainly  would  follow,  as  toward  the  verge 
Sweeps  the  wide  torrent — waves  innumerable 
Meet  there  and  madden — waves  innumerable 
Urge  on  and  overtake  the  waves  before, 
And  disappear  in  thunder  and  in  foam. 

They  reach — they  leap  the  barrier :  the  abyss 
Swallows,  insatiable,  the  sinking  waves. 
A  thousand  rainbows  arch  them,  and  the  woods 
Are  deafened  with  the  roar.     The  violent  shock 
Shatters  to  vapour  the  descending  sheets : 
A  cloudy  whirlwind  fills  the  gulf,  and  heaves 
The  mighty  pyramid  of  circling  mist 
To  heaven.     The  solitary  hunter,  near, 
Pauses  with  terror  in  the  forest  shades. 

*  ^  *  # 

God  of  all  truth !  in  other  lands  I've  seen 
Lying  philosophers,  blaspheming  men, 
Questioners  of  thy  mysteries,  that  draw 
Their  fellows  deep  into  impiety ; 
And  therefore  doth  my  spirit  seek  thy  face 
In  earth's  majestic  solitudes.     Even  here 
My  heart  dotii  open  all  itself  to  thee, 
In  this  immensity  of  loneliness 
9 


NATIONAL  READER. 

1  feel  thy  hand  upon  me.     To  my  ear 
The  eternal  thunder  of  the  cataract  brings 
Thy  voice,  and  I  am  humbled  as  I  hear. 

Dread  torrent !  that  with  wonder  and  with  fear 
Dost  overwhelm  the  soul  of  him  that  looks 
Upon  thee,  and  dost  bear  it  from  itself, 
Whence  hast  thou  thy  beginning  ?     Who  supplies, 
Age  after  age,  thy  unexhausted  springs  ? 
What  power  hath  ordered,  that,  when  all  thy  weight 
Descends  into  the  deep,  the  swollen  waves 
Rise  not,  and  roll  to  overwhelm  the  earth  ? 

The  Lord  hath  opened  his  omnipotent  hand, 
Covered  thy  face  with  clouds,  and  given  his  voice 
To  thy  down-rushing  waters  ;  he  hath  girt 
Thy  terrible  forehead  with  his  radiant  bow* 
I  see  thy  never-resting  waters  run, 
And  I  bethink  me  how  the  tide  of  time 
Sweeps  to  eternity.     So  pass  of  man,— 
Pass,  like  a  noon-day  dream, — the  blossoming  days, 
And  he  awakes  to  sorrow.     ^ 

Hear,  dread  Niagara !  my  latest  voice. 
Yet  a  few  years,  and  the  cold  earth  shall  close 
Over  the  bones  of  him  who  sings  thee  now 
Thus  feelingly.     Would  that  this,  my  humble  verse, 
Might  be,  like  thee,  immortal.     I,  meanwhile, 
Cheerfully  passing  to  the  appointed  rest, 
Might  raise  my  radiant  forehead  in  the  clouds 
To  listen  to  the  echoes  of  my  fame. 


LESSON  XLIX. 
Cataract  at   Terni.* 

THERE  is  a  rare  union  of  beauty  and  grandeur  in  the 
Falls  of  Terni.  Though  the  quantity  of  water  be  much 
less  than  the  Rhine  discharges  at  Schaifhausen,  yet  the 
scene  is  much  more  imposing,  from  the  greater  height  of  the 
precipice.  Niagara  alone  more  completely  absorbs  the  ima- 

*  Tiiis  beautiful  description  is  extracted  from  a  very  elegant  volume  pub- 
li shed  by  Messrs.  Constable  and  Co.  in  1823,  under  the  title  of  "Essays, 
descriptive  and  moral;  or,  Scenes,  in  Jtaly,  Switzerland  Holland,  and 
France  — by  an 


NATIONAL  READER.  99 

gination.  The  American  cataract  has  an  overwhelming 
majesty  that  belongs  to  its  flood  of  waters,  and  which,  at 
first,  stupifies  the  faculties  of  every  observer;  hut  Terni 
has  an  attractive  grandeur,  which  induces  you  to  advance 
deliberately  to  examine  a  wonder  which  nature  and  art  have 
united  to  produce. 

The  rapids  in  the  American  river,  before  you  reach  the 
edge  of  the  precipice,  combined  with  the  distant  roar  of  the 
falls,  form  a  more  sublime  spectacle  than  the  full  view  of 
Schaffhausen,  while  the  prospect  from  the  Table  Rock  is 
like  a  glance  into  eternity.  We  are  ob?iged  to  call  up  the 
force  of  our  minds  to  keep  us  from  recoiling  with  dread. 
But  at  the  Cascata  del  Marmore,  as  this  Italian  waterfall  is 
styled,  the  eye  rests  upon  the  scene  with  a  pleasing  astonish- 
ment, in  which  there  is  more  of  delight  than  terror. 

It  is  situated  at  a  few  miles  distance  from  Terni.  The 
country  is  beautifully  romantic.  The  road  lies,  for  the  most 
part,  through  fields  of  olive  trees.  AtPapinia  you  aie  oblig- 
ed to  leave  the  carriage;  and,  after  descending  and  cross- 
ing the  Nera,  and  traversing  a  garden  and  beautiful  line  of 
orange  trees,  you  approach  the  celebrated  fall. 

When  I  saw  it,  the  melting  of  the  snow,  and  the  late 
rains,  had  swollen  the  river  to  nearly  double  its  ordinary 
size.  This  outlet  for  the  lake  Velinus  has  been  most  hap- 
pily chosen ;  for  there  are  few  situations  where  an  artificial 
cataract  could  be  more  than  beautiful ;  but  this  is  exquisite. 
An  ancient  castle  crowns  the  summit  of  the  lofty  mountain 
near  you ;  and  numberless  rills  run  down  near  the  main 
sheet  of  water. 

But  one  of  the  most  beautiful  objects  is  occasioned  by  the 
quantity  of  foam  produced  by  the  fall,  which  ascends  in 
clouds,  and,  being  collected  by  a  projecting  ridge,  runs  down 
in  innumerable  little  cascades ;  and,  as  you  cannot,  at  first, 
divine  the  cause,  the  rock  seems  bursting  with  the  waters 
it  holds  in  its  bosom.  Besides  its  other  attributes,  this  fall 
•has  the  best  of  all  charms, — association.  It  is  in  Italy !  it 
is  a  work  of  the  Romans !  these  foaming  waters  wash  the 
walls  of  the  Eternal  City! 

When  the  admirer  of  nature's  wonders  visits  Niagara,  he 
travels  through  extensive  forests,  just  beginning  to  be  the 
residence  of  civilized  men ;  and  he  reflects  upon  the  gene- 
rations of  aboriginal  inhabitants  tha.t  vanished  from  these 
woods  during  many  centuries,  as  the  foam  of  the  cataract 
shas  risen  daily,  to  fall  again,  and  to  be  swept  away.  But 


100  NATIONAL  READER, 

they  have  passed,  and  have  left  no  memorial:  the  traveller 
is  forced  inward  for  topics  of  meditation  :  the  scene  wants 
drapery :  it  is  too  much  like  the  summit  of  Chimborazo, — 
of  unequalled  loftiness,  but  freezing  cold. 

On  the  contrary,  the  Fall  of  Velino  has  heen  approached 
in  a  course  from  the  vale  of  Clitumnus  towards  the  banks 
of  the  Tiber ;  the  ruin  of  Augustus'  bridge,  at  Narni,  is  to 
be  the  picture  of  to-morrow ;  Agrippa's  Pantheon  is  soon  to 
be  seen.  We  have  not  the  feeling  of  sadness,  that  we  are 
at  the  end  of  an  enjoyment,  when  we  have  beheld  this  won- 
der,— a  sentiment  which  forces  itself  upon  the  traveller  who 
stands  between  Erie  and  Ontario.  Such  causes  give  a 
richness  and  mellowness  to  the  scene,  which  cannot  operate 
upon  the  American  cataract. 

Yet,  with  all  this,  if  we  could  select  but  one  of  the  two 
wonders  to  be  seen,  it  would  not  be  easy  to  decide  between 
their  respective  claims.  Men  of  the  sterner  mould  would 
choose  the  object  of  unmingled  sublimity,  and  those  of 
milder  sentiment,  that  which  is  the  perfection  of  grandeur 
and  beauty.  It  is  not  unlike  a  comparison  between  Homer 
and  Virgil. 

The  impression  which  is  produced  by  the  sight  of  a  great 
waterfall  is  unique.^  Unlike  any  of  our  other  feelings,  it 
makes  the  most  giddy  thoughtful,  and  offers  many  points  of 
comparison  with  human  life.  The  landmarks  are  perma- 
nent as  the  fields  we  live  in  ;  the  waters  fleeting  as  our 
breath ;  the  plunge  that  they  make  into  unknown  depths, 
like  our  descent  into  the  grave  ;  the  rainbow,  that  sits  upon 
the  abyss,  like  our  hope  of  immortality. 

There  is  the  dread  of  danger,  and  the  curiosity  of  hope, 
and  the  impression  of  the  irresistible  im'petus  by  which  we 
are  borne  forward,  to  make  us  feel  that  we  too  are  gliding 
onward, — though  sometimes  as  unconscious  as  the  bubble, — 
to  the  gulf  of  eternity,  into  which  the  troubled  waters  of  life 
discharge  themselves.  An  immortal  and  immutable  condi- 
tion awaits  us,  though  we  sport  with  what  seems  to  be  the 
contingencies  of  existence. 

How  often  are  we  reckless  of  the  star  that  might  guide, 
&nd  the  chart  that  should  direct  us  in  our  voyage,  while  we 
are  floating  onward  and  onward,  with  accelerated  velocity, 
to  the  last  leap  of  life  !  It  is  the  highest  crime  a  man  can 
commit  against  reason  and  revelation,  if  he  ventures  to 
make  that  leap  in  the  dark. 

*  Pron.  u-neck'. 


NATIONAL  READER.  101 

LESSON  L. 

A  West  Indian  Landscape. — MALTE-BRUN. 

IN  order  to  make  our  readers  better  acquainted  with  this 
country,  we  shall  attempt  to  describe  a  morning  in  the  An- 
tilles. For  this  purpose,  let  us  watch  the  moment  when 
the  sun,  appearing  through  a  cloudless  and  serene  atmos- 
phere, illumines  with  his  rays  the  summits  of  the  mountains, 
and  gilds  the  leaves  of  the  plantain  and  orange  trees.  The 
plants  are  spread  over  with  gossamer  of  fine  and  transparent 
silk,  or  gemmed  with  dew-drops  and  the  vivid  hues  of  in- 
dustrious insects,  reflecting  unnumbered  tints  from  the  rays 
©f  the  sun. 

The  aspect  of  the  richly  cultivated  valleys  is  different,  but 
not  less  pleasing ;  the  whole  of  nature  teems  with  the  most 
varied  productions.  It  often  happens,  after  the  sun  has  dis- 
sipated the  mist  above  the  crystal  expanse  of  the  ocean,  that 
the  scene  is  changed  by  an  optical  illusion.  The  spectator 
observes  sometimes  a  sand-bank  rising  out  of  the  deep,  or 
distant  canoes  in  the  red  clouds,  floating  in  an  aerial  sea, 
while  their  shadows,  at  the  same  time,  are  accurately  deli- 
neated below  them.  This  phenomenon,  to  which  the  French 
have  given  the  name  of  mirage,*  is  not  uncommon  in  equa- 
torial climates. 

Europeans  may  admire  the  views  in  this  archipelagot 
during  the  cool  temperature  of  the  morning:  the  lofty  moun- 
tains are  adorned  with  thick  foliage;  the  hills,  from  their 
summits  to  the  very  borders  of  the  sea,  are  fringed  with 
plants  of  never-fading  verdure ;  the  mills,  and  sugar-works 
near  them,  are  obscured  by  their  branches,  or  buried  in 
their  shade. 

The  appearance  of  the  valleys  is  remarkable.  To  form 
even  an  imperfect  idea  of  it,  we  must  group t  together  the 
palm  tree,  the  cocoa  nut,  and  mountain  cabbage,  with  the 
tamarind,  the  orange,  and  the  waving  plumes  of  the  bamboo 
cane.  Fields  of  sugar-cane,  the  houses  of  the  planters, 
the  huts  of  the  negroes,  and  the  distant  coast  lined  with 
ships,  add  to  the  beauty  of  a  West  Indian  landscape.  At  sun- 
rise, when  no  breeze  ripples  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  it  is 
frequently  so  transparent  that  one  can  perceive,  as  if  there 

*  Pron.  me-razhe.  t  ar-ke-pel'-a-go.  I  groop. 

9* 


102  NATIONAL  READER. 

were  no  intervening  medium,  the  channel  of  the  water,  and 
observe  the  shell-fish  scattered  on  the  rocks  or  reposing  on 
the  sand. 

A  hurricane  is  generally  preceded  by  an  awful  stillness 
of  the  elements;  the  air  becomes  close  and  heavy;  the  sun 
is  red ;  and  the  stars  at  night  seem  unusually  large.  Fre- 
quent changes  take  place  in  the  thermometer,  which  rises 
sometimes  from  eighty  to  ninety  degrees.  Darkness  extends 
over  the  earth ;  the  higher  regions  gleam  with  lightning. 

The  impending  storm  is  first  observed  on  the  sea :  foam- 
ing mountains  rise  suddenly  from  its  clear  and  motionless 
surface.  The  wind  rages  with  unrestrained  fury  :  its  noise 
may  be  compared  to  distant  thunder.  The  rain  descends  in 
torrents  ;  shrubs  and  lofty  trees  are  borne  down  by  the  moun- 
tain streams  ;  the  rivers  overflow  their  banks,  and  submerge 
the  plains. 

Terror  and  consternation  seem  to  pervade  the  whole  of 
animated  nature  ;  land  birds  are  driven  into  the  ocean,  and 
those  whose  element  is  the  sea,  seek  for  refuge  in  the  woods. 
The  frighted  beasts  of  the  field  herd  together,  or  roam  in 
vain  for  a  place  of  shelter.  It  is  not  a  contest  of  two  oppo- 
site winds,  or  a  roaring  ocean  that  shakes  the  earth :  all  the 
elements  are  thrown  into  confusion  ;  the  equilibrium  of  the 
atmosphere  seems  as  if  it  were  destroyed;  and  nature  ap- 
pears to  hasten  to  her  ancient  chaos. 

Scenes  of  sudden  desolation  have  often  been  disclosed  in 
these  islands  to  the  morning's  sun :  uprooted  trees,  branches 
shivered  from  their  trunks,  and  the  ruins  of  houses,  have 
been  strewed^  over  the  land.  The  planter  is  sometimes 
unable  to  distinguish  the  pla.ce  of  his  former  possessions. 
Fertile  valleys  are  changed  in  a  few  hours  into  dreary 
wastes,  covered  with  the  carcasses  of  domestic  animals  and 
the  fowls  of  heaven. 


LESSON  LL 

Infaicnces  of  Natural  Scenery  favourable  to  Devotional 
Feelings,— BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 

WHATEVER  leads  our  minds  habitually  to  the  Author  of 
the  universe ;  whatever  mingles  the  voice  of  nature  with 
the  revelation  of  the  Gospel ;  whatever  teaches  us  to  see 

*  Pron.  strowcd. 


NATIONAL  READER.  103 

in  all  the  changes  of  the  world,  the  varied  goodness  of  Him, 
in  whom  "we  live,  and  move,  and  have  our  being,"  brings 
us  nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind.  But  it  is 
not  only  as  encouraging  a  sincere  devotion,  that  these  re- 
flections are  favourable  to  Christianity ;  there  is  something, 
moreover,  peculiarly  allied  to  its  spirit  in  such  observations 
of  external  nature. 

When  our  Saviour  prepared  himself  for  his  temptation, 
his  agony,  and  death,  he  retired  to  the  wilderness  of  Judea, 
to  inhale,  we  may  venture  to  believe,  a  holier  spirit  amidst 
its  solitary  scenes,  and  to  approach  to  a  nearer  communion 
with  his  Father,  amidst  the  subiimest  of  his  wo^ks.  It  is 
with  similar  feelings,  and  to  worship  the  same  Father,  that 
the  Christian  is  permitted  to  enter  the  temple  of  nature; 
and,  by  the  spirit  of  his  religion,  there  is  a  language  infused 
into  the  objects  which  she  presents,  unknown  to  the  wor- 
shipper of  former  times. 

To  all,  indeed,  the  same  objects  appear,  the  same  sun 
shines,  the  same  heavens  are  open ;  but  to  the  Christian 
alone  it  is  permitted  to  know  the  Author  of  these  things ; 
to  see  his  spirit  "move  in  the  breeze  and  blossom  in  the 
spring;"  and  to  read,  in  the  changes  which  occur  in  the 
material  world,  the  varied  expression  of  eternal  love.  It  is 
from  the  influence  of  Christianity,  accordingly,  that  the  key 
has  been  given  to  the  signs  of  nature.  It  was  only  when 
the  spirit  of  God  moved  on  the  face  of  the  deep,  that  order 
and  beauty  were  seen  in  the  world. 

It  is,  accordingly,  peculiarly  well  worthy  of  observation, 
that  the  beauty  of  nature,  as  felt  in  modern  times,  seems  to 
have  been  almost  unknown  to  the  writers  of  antiquity. 
They  described,  occasionally,  the  scenes  in  which  they 
dwelt;  but,-— if  we  except  Virgil,  whose  gentle  mind  seems 
to  have  anticipated,  in  this  instance,  the  influence  of  the 
Gospel, — never  with  any  deep  feeling  of  their  beauty.  Then, 
as  now,  the  citadel  of  Athens  looked  upon  the  evening  sun, 
and  her  temples  flamed  in  his  seeing  beam;  but  what  Athe- 
nian writer  ever  described  the  matchless  glories  of  the 
scene  ?  Then,  as  now,  the  silvery  clouds  of  the  ^Egean 
Sea  rolled  round  her  verdant  isles,  and  sported  in  the  azure 
vault  of  heaven ;  but  what  Grecian  poet  has  been  inspired 
by  the  sight  ? 

The  Italian  lakes  spread  their  waves  beneath  a  cloudless 
sky,  and  all  that  is  lovely  in  nature  was  gathered  around 
thorn ;  yet  even  Eustace  tells  us,  that  a  few  detached  fee* 


104  NATIONAL  READER. 

is  all  that  is  left  In  regard  to  them  by  the  Roman  poets.  The 
Alps  themselves, 

"  The  palaces  of  nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche— the  thunderbolt  of  SDOW/' — 

even  these,  the  most  glorious  objects  which  the  eye  of  man 
can  behold,  were  regarded  by  the  ancients  with  sentiments 
only  of  dismay  or  horror ;  as  a  barrier  from  hostile  nations, 
or  as  the  dwelling  of  barbarous  tribes.  The  torch  of  religion 
had  not  then  lightened  the  face  of  nature  ;  they  knew  not 
the  language  which  she  spoke,  nor  felt  that  holy  spirit, 
which,  to  the  Christian,  gives  the  sublimity  of  these  scenes. 

There  is  something,  therefore,  in  religious  reflections  on 
the  objects,  or  the  changes  of  nature,  which  is  peculiarly  fit- 
ting in  a  Christian  teacher.  No  man  will  impress  them  on 
his  heart  without  becoming  happier  and  better, — without 
feeling  warmer  gratitude  for  the  beneficence  of  nature,  and 
deeper  thankfulness  for  the  means  of  knowing  the  Author  of 
this  beneficence  which  revelation  has  afforded. 

"Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field,"  says  our  Saviour;  "they 
toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin  :  yet,  verily  I  say  unto  you,  that 
even  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of 
these."  In  these  words,  we  perceive  the  deep  sense  which 
he  entertained  of  the  beauty  even  of  the  minutest  of  the 
works  of  nature.  If  the  admiration  of  external  objects  is 
not  directly  made  the  object  of  his  precepts,  it  is  not,  on  that 
account,  the  less  allied  to  the  spirit  of  religion  ;  it  fprings 
from  the  revelation  which  he  has  made,  and  grows  with  the 
spirit  which  he  inculcates. 

The  cultivation  of  this  feeling,  we  may  suppose,  is  pur- 
posely left  to  the  human  mind,  that  man  may  be  induced  to 
follow  it  from  the  charms  which  novelty  confers ;  and  the 
sentiments  which  it  awakens  are  not  expressly  enjoined, 
that  they  may  be  enjoyed  as  the  spontaneous  growth  of 
our  own  imagination.  While  they  seem,  however,  to  spring 
up  unbidden  in  the  mind,  they  are,  in  fact,  produced  by 
the  spirit  of  religion ;  and  those  who  imagine  that  they 
are  not  the  fit  subject  of  Christian  instruction,  are  ignorant 
of  the  secret  workings,  and  finer  analogies,  of  the  faith 
which  they  profess  x 


NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON   LIT. 

Passage  of  the  Potomac  and  Shenandoah  Rivers  through  the 
Blue  Ridge. — JEFFERSON. 

THE  passage  of  the  Potomac  through  the  Blue  Ridge,  is, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  most  stupendous  scenes  in  nature.  You 
stand  on  a  very  high  point  of  land.  On  your  right  comes 
up  the  Shenandoah,  having  ranged  along  the  foot  of  the 
mountain  a  hundred  miles,  to  seek  a  vent.  On  your  left 
approaches  the  Potomac,  in  quest  of  a  passage  also.  In  the 
moment  of  their  junction  they  rash  together  against  the 
mountain,  rend  it  asunder,  and  pass  off  to  the  sea. 

The  first  glance  of  this  scene  hurries  our  senses  into  the 
opinion,  that  this  earth  has  been  created  in  time ;  that  the 
mountains  were  formed  first;  that  the  rivers  began  to  flow 
afterwards ;  that,  in  this  place  particularly,  they  have  been 
dammed  up  by  the  Blue  Ridge  of  mountains,  and  have 
formed  an  ocean,  which  filled  the  whole  valley;  that,  con- 
tinuing to  rise,  they  have,  at  length,  broken  over  at  this 
spot,  and  have  torn  the  mountain  down,  from  its  summit  to 
its  base.  The  piles  of  rock  on  each  hand,  but  particularly 
on  the  Shenandoah,  the  evident  marks  of  their  disrupture 
and  avulsion  from  their  beds,  by  the  most  powerful  agents 
of  nature,  corroborate  this  impression. 

But  the  distant  finishing,  which  nature  has  given  to  the 
picture,  is  of  a  very  different  character.  It  is  a  true  contrast 
to  the  fore-ground.  Thnt  is  as  placid  and  delightful,  as  this 
is  wild  and  tremendous.  'For  the  mountain,  being  cloven 
asunder,  presents  to  your  eye,  through  the  cleft,  a  small 
catch  of  smooth  blue  horizon,  at  an  infinite  distance  in  the 
plain  country,  inviting  you,  as  it  were,  from  the  riot  and 
tumult  roaring  around,  to  pass  through  the  breach  and  par- 
ticipate of  the  calm  below. 

Here  the  eye  ultimately  composes  itself;  and  that  way, 
too,  the  road  happens  actually  to  lead.  You  cross  the  Poto- 
mac above  the  junction,  pass  along  its  side  through  the  base 
of  the  mountain,  for  three  miles  ;  its  terrible  precipices 
hanging  in  fragments  over  you.  This  scene  is  worth  a  voy- 
age across  the  Atlantic,  ^et  here,  as  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Natural  Bridge,  are  people,  who  have  passed  their 
lives  within  half  a  dozen  miles,  and  have  never  been  to 


106  NATIONAL  READER. 

survey  these  monuments  of  a  war  between  rivers  and 
mountains  which  must  have  shaken  the  earth  itself  to  its 
centre. 


LESSON  LIU. 

The  Blind  Boy. — BLOOMFIELD. 

WHERE'S  the  blind  child,  so  admirably  fair, 
With  guileless  dimples,  and  with  flaxen  hair 
That  waves  in  every  breeze  ?     He's  often  seen 
Beside  yon  cottage  wall,  or  on  the  green, 
With  others,  matched  in  spirit  and  in  size, 
Health  on  their  cheeks,  and  rapture  in  their  eyes 
That  full  expanse  of  voice,  to  childhood  dear, 
Soul  of  their  sports,  is  duly  cherished  here ; 
And,  hark!  that  laugh  is  his,  that  jovial  cry; 
He  hears  the  ball  and  trundling  hoop  brush  by, 
And  runs  the  giddy  course  with  all  his  might, — 
A  very  child  in  every  thing  but  sight. 

With  circumscribed,  but  not  abated  powers,-^- 
Play  the  great  object  of  his  infant  hours,-— 
In  many  a  game  he  takes  a  noisy  part, 
And  shows  the  native  gladness  of  his  heart 
But  soon  he  hears,  on  pleasure  all  intent, 
The  new  suggestion  and  the  quick  assent : 
The  grove  invites,  delight  thrills  every  breast : 
To  leap  the  ditch,  and  seek  the  downy  nest, 
Away  they  start, — leave  balls  and  hoops  behind ,  ' 
And  one  companion  leave, — the  boy  is  blind  ! 

His  fancy  paints  their  distant  paths  so  gay, 
That  childish  fortitude  awhile  gives  way : 
He  feels  his  dreadful  loss :  yet  short  the  pain  : 
Soon  he  resumes  his  cheerfulness  again. 
Pondering  how  best  his  moments  to  employ, 
He  sings  his  little  songs  of  nameless  joy, 
Creeps  on  the  warm  green  turf  for  many  an  hour, 
And  plucks,  by  chance,  the  white  and  yellow  flower; 
Smoothing  their  stems,  while  resting  on  his  knees, 
He  binds  a  nosegay  which  he  never  sees ; 
Along  the  homeward  path  then  feels  his  way, 
Lifting  his  brow  against  the  shining  day, 
And,  with  a  playful  rapture  round  his  eyes, 
Presents  a  sighing  parent  with  the  prize.. 


NATIONAL  READER.  107 

LESSON  LIV. 

A  Thought  on  Death. — Miis.  BARBAULD** 

WHEN  life  as  opening  buds  is  sweet, 
And  golden  hopes  the  spirit  greet, 
Arid  youth  prepares  his  joys  to  meet, 
Alas  !  how  hard  it  is  to  die  ! 

When  scarce  is  seized  some  valued  prize, 
And  duties  press,  and  tender  ties 
Forbid  the  soul  from  earth  to  rise, 

How  awful  then  it  is  to  die ! 

When,  one  by  one,  those  ties  are  torn, 
And  friend  from  friend  is  snatched  forlorn, 
And  man  is  left  alone  to  mourn, 

Ah !  then,  how  easy  'tis  to  die 

When  trembling  limbs  refuse  their  weight, 
And  films,  slow-gathering,  dim  the  sight, 
And  clouds  obscure  the  mental  light, 

'Tis  nature's  precious  boon  to  die ! 

When  faith  is  strong,  and  conscience  clear, 
And  words  of  peace  the  spirit  cheer, 
And -visioned  glories  half  appear, 

'Tis  joy,  'tis  triumph,  then  to  die ! 


LESSON   LV. 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral— BRYANT. 

I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier : 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year ; — 

Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  women's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed  uloud 

*  Written  after  she  had  passed  her  eightieth  year. 


IDS  NATIONAL  READER. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man,  and  said, 

In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 
"  Why  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 

Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 
Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 
Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the  ripened  mast. 

"  Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, — 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, — 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  the  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 
O'er  the  warm-coloured  heaven  and  ruddy  mountain  head. 

"  Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  run 
The  hound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labours  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed? 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues  yet 
Lingers,  like  twilight  huesr  when  the  bright  sun  is  set. 

•'  His  youth  was  innocent;  his  riper  age 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness  every  day; 

And,  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm  and  sage 
Faded  his  late-declining  years  away. 

Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  went 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well  spent. 

"  That  life  was  happy  ;  every  day.  he  gave 

Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his ; 
For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her  slave, 

To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 
No  chronic^  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 
For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  nonet  for  him. 

"And  I  am  glad  that  he  has  lived  thus  long; 

And  glad  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward ; 
Nor  deem  that  kindly  nature  did  him  wrong, 

Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 
When  his  weak  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 
Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die." 

*  A  chronic  disease  is  one  of  long  duration.  t  Pron.  nua. 


NATIONAL  READER.  109 

LESSON  LVL 

Sunday  Evening. — Bo  WRING. 

How  shall  I  praise  tliee,  Lord  of  light  ? 

How  shall  I  all  thy  love  declare  ? 
The  earth  is  veiled  in  shades  of  night ; 

But  heaven  is  open  to  my  prayer ; — 
That  heaven,  so  bright  with  stars  and  suns  ; 

That  glorious  heaven,  which  knows  no  bound  ; 
Where  the  full  tide  of  being  runs, 

And  life  and  beauty  glow  around. 
From  thence,— thy  seat  of  light  divine, 

Circled  by  thousand  streams  of  bliss, 
Which  calmly  flow  and  brightly  shine,— 

Say,  to  a  world  so  mean  as  this, 
Canst  thou  direct  thy  pitying  eye  ? 

How  shall  my  thoughts  expression  find, 
All  lost  in  thy  immensity ! 

How  shall  I  seek,  thou  infinite  Mind, 
Thy  holy  presence,  God  sublime  ! 

Whose  power  and  wisdom,  love  and  grace, 
Are  greater  than  the  round  of  time, 

And  wider  than  the  bounds  of  space ! 

Gently  the  shades  of  night  descend ; 

Thy  temple,  Lord,  is  calm  and  still ; 
A  thousand  lamps  of  ether  blend, 

A  thousand  fires  that  temple  fill, 
To  honour  thee.     'Tis  bright  and  fair, 

As  if  the  very  heavens,  impressed 
With  thy  pure  image  smiling  there, 

In  all  their  loveliest  robes  were  dressed. 
Yet  thou  canst  turn  thy  friendly  eye 

From  that  immeasurable  throne ; 
Thou,  smiling  on  humanity, 

Dost  claim  earth's  children  for  thy  own, 
And  gently,  kindly,  lead  them  through 

Life's  varied  scenes  of  joy  and  gloom, 
Till  evening's  pale  and  pearly  dew 

Tips  the  green  sod  that  decks  their  tomb. 
10 


110  K.T10NAL  READER. 

LESSON  LVII. 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem. — J.  G.  PERCIVAL. 

BRIGHTER  than  the  rising  day, 

When  the  sun  of  glory  shines ; 
Brighter  than  the  diamond's  ray, 

Sparkling  in  Golconda's  mines ; 
Beaming  through  the  clouds  of  wo, 

Smiles  in  Mercy's  diadem 
On  the  guilty  world  below, 

The  Star  that  rose  in  Bethlehem. 

When  our  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears, 

This  can  light  them  up  again, 
Sweet  as  music  to  our  ears, 

Faintly  warbling  o'er  the  plain. 
Never  shines  a  ray  so  bright 

From  the  purest  earthly  gem  ; 
O !  there  is  no  soothing  light 

Like  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 

Grief's  dark  clouds  may  o'er  us  roll, 

Every  heart  may  sink  in  wo, 
Gloomy  conscience  rack  the  soul, 

And  sorrow's  tears  in  torrents  flow ; 
Still,  through  all  these  clouds  and  storms 

Shines  this  purest  heavenly  gem, 
With  a  ray  that  kindly  warms — 

The  Star  that  rose  in  Bethlehem. 

When  we  cross  the  roaring  wave 

That  rolls  on  life's  remotest  shore ; 
When  we  look  into  the  grave, 

And  wander  through  this  world  no  more 
This,  the  lamp  whose  genial  ray, 

Like  some  brightly-glowing  gem, 
Points  to  man  his  darkling  way — 

The  Star  that  rose  in  Bethlehem. 

Let  the  world  be  sunk  in  sorrow, 
Not  an  eye  be  charmed  or  blessed ; 

We  can  see  a  fair  to-morrow 
Smiling  in  ^e  rosy  west ; 


NATIONAL  READER.  Ill 

This,  her  heacon,  Hope  displays ; 

For,  in  Mercy's  diadem, 
Shines,  with  Faith's  serenest  rays, 

The  Star  that  rose  ir  Bethlehem. 

When  this  gloomy  lif^  is  o'er, 

When  we  smile  in  bliss  above, 
When,  on  that  delightful  shore, 

We  enjoy  the  heaven  of  love, — 
O !  what  dazzling  light  shall  shine 

Round  salvation's  purest  gem  ! 
~> !  what  rays  of  love  divine 

Gild  the  Star  of  Bethlehem! 


LESSON   LVIII. 

The  Funeral  of  Maria. — MACKENZIE. 

MARIA  was  in  her  twentieth  year.  To  the  beauty  of  her 
form,  and  excellence  of  her  natural  disposition,  a  parent, 
equally  indulgent  and  attentive,  had  done  the  fullest  justice. 
To  accomplish  her  person,  and  to  cultivate  her  mind,  every 
endeavour  had  been  used,  and  had  been  attended  with  that 
success  which  parental  efforts  commonly  meet  with,  when 
not  prevented  by  mistaken  fondness,  or  untimely  vanity. 

Few  young  ladies  have  attracted  more  admiration ;  none 
ever  felt  it  less :  with  all  the  charms  of  beauty,  and  the 
polish  of  education,  the  plainest  were  not  less  affected,  nor 
the  most  ignorant  less  assuming.  She  died  when  every 
tongue  was  eloquent  of  her  virtues,  when  every  hope  was 
ripening  to  reward  them. 

It  is  by  such  private  and  domestic  distresses,  that  the 
softer  emotions  of  the  heart  are  most  strongly  excited.  The 
fall  of  more  important  personages  is  commonly  distant  from 
our  observation  ;  but,  even  where  it  happens  under  our  im- 
mediate notice,  there  is  a  mixture  of  other  feelings,  by  which 
our  compassion  is  weakened. 

The  eminently  great,  or  extensively  useful,  leave  behind 
them  a  train  of  interrupted  views,  and  disappointed  expec- 
tations, by  which  the  distress  is  complicated  beyond  the 
simplicity  of  pity.  But  the  death  of  one,  who,  like  Maria, 
was  to  died  the  influence  of  her  virtues  over  the  a^e  of  a 


112  NATIONAL  READER. 

father,  and  the  childhood  of  her  sisters,  presents  to  us  a 
little  view  of  family  affliction,  which  every  eye  can  perceive, 
and  every  heart  can  feel. 

On  scenes  of  public  sorrow  and  national  regret,  we  gaze 
as  upon  those  gallery  pictures,  which  strike  us  with  wonder 
and  admiration :  domestic  calamity  is  like  the  miniature  of 
a  friend,  which  we  wear  in  our  bosoms,  and  keep  for  secret 
looks  and  solitary  enjoyment. 

The  last  time  I  saw  Maria,  was  in  the  midst  of  a  crowded 
assembly  of  the  fashionable  and  the  gay,  where  she  fixed 
all  eyes  by  the  gracefulness  of  her  motions,  and  the  native 
dignity  of  her  mien ;  yet,  so  tempered  was  that  superiority 
which  they  conferred  with  gentleness  and  modesty,  that  not 
a  murmur  was  heard,  either  from  the  rivalship  of  beauty,  or 
the  envy  of  homeliness.  From  that  scene  the  transition 
was  so  violent  to  the  hearse  and  the  pall,  the  grave  and  the 
sod,  that  once  or  twice  my  imagination  turned  rebel  to  my 
senses :  I  beheld  the  objects  around  me  as  the  painting  of 
a  dream,  and  thought  of  Maria  as  still  living. 

I  was  soon,  however,  recalled  to  the  sad  reality.  The 
figure  of  her  father  bending  over  the  grave  of  his  darling 
child ;  the  silent,  suffering  composure,  in  which  his  counte- 
nance was  fixed ;  the  tears  of  his  attendants,  whose  grief 
was  light,  and  capable  of  tears ;  these  gave  me  back  the 
truth,  and  reminded  me  that  I  should  see  her  no  more. 
There  was  a  flow  of  sorrow,  with  which  I  suffered  myself 
to  be  borne  along,  with  a  melancholy  kind  of  indulgence ; 
but  when  her  father  dropped  the  cord,  with  which  he  had 
helped  to  lay  his  Maria  in  the  earth,  its  sound  on  the  coffin 
chilled  my  heart,  and  horror  for  a  moment  took  place  of 
pity! 

It  was  but  for  a  moment. — He  looked  eagerly  into  the 
grave ;  made  one  involuntary  motion  to  stop  the  assistants, 
who  were  throwing  the  earth  into  it ;  then,  suddenly  recol- 
lecting himself,  clasped  his  hands  together,  threw  up  his 
eyes  to  heaven ;  and  then,  first,  I  saw  a  few  tears  drop  from 
them.  I  gave  language  to  all  this.  It  spoke  a  lesson  of 
faith,  and  piety,  and  resignation.  I  went  away  sorrowful, 
but  my  sorrow  was  neither  ungentle  nor  unmanly ;  I  cast  on 
this  world  a  glance  rather  of  pity  than  of  enmity ;  and  on 
the  next,  a  look  of  humbleness  and  hope! 

Such,  I  am  persuaded,  will  commonly  be  the  effect  of 
scenes  like  that  I  have  described,  on  minds  neither  frigid 
nor  unthinking :  for,  of  feelings  like  these,  the  gloom  of  the 


NATIONAL  READER.  113 

ascetic  is  as  little  susceptible  as  the  levity  of  the  giddy. 
There  needs  a  certain  pliancy  of  mind,  which  society  alone 
can  give, — though  its  vices  often  destroy  it, — to  render  us 
capable  of  that  gentle  melancholy,  which  makes  sorrow 
pleasant,  and  affliction  useful. 

It  is  not  from  a  melancholy  of  this  sort,  that  men  are 
prompted  to  the  cold,  unfruitful  virtues  of  monkish,  solitude. 
These  are  often  the  effects  rather  of  passion  secluded  than 
repressed,  rather  of  temptation  avoided  than  overcome.  The 
crucifix  and  the  rosary,  the  death's  head  and  the  bones,  if 
custom  has  not  made  them  indifferent,  will  rather  chill  desire 
than  excite  virtue  ;  but,  amidst  the  warmth  of  social  affection, 
and  of  social  sympathy,  the  heart  will  feel  the  weakness, 
and  enjoy  the  duties,  of  humanity. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  said,  that  such  situations,  and  such  re- 
flections as  the  foregoing,  will  only  affect  minds  already  too 
tender,  and  be  disregarded  by  those  who  need  the  lessons 
they  impart.  But  this,  I  apprehend,  is  to  allow  too  much 
to  the  force  of  habit,  and  the  resistance  of  prejudice. 

I  will  not  pretend  to  assert,  that  rooted  principles,  and 
long-established  conduct,  are  suddenly  to  be  changed  by  the 
effects  of  situation,  or  the  eloquence  of  sentiment ;  but,  if  it 
be  granted  that  such  change  ever  took  place,  who  shal, 
determine  by  what  imperceptible  motive,  or  accidental  im- 
pression, it  was  first  begun  ?  And,  even  if  the  influence  of 
such  a  call  to  thought  can  only  smother,  in  its  birth,  one 
allurement  to  evil,  or  confirm  one  wavering  purpose  to  vir- 
tue, I  shall  not  have  unjustly  commended  that  occasional 
indulgence  of  pensiveness  and  sorrow,  which  will  thus  be 
rendered  not  only  one  of  the  refinements,  but  one  of  the 
improvements  of  life. 


LESSON  LIX. 

A  Leaf  from  "  The  Life  of  a  Looking- Glass" — 
Miss  JANE  TAYLOR. 

IT  being  very  much  the  custom,  as  I  am  informed,  even 
for  obscure  individuals  to  furnish  some  account  of  them- 
selves, for  the  edification  of  the  public,  I  hope  I  shall  not 
be  deemed  impertinent  for  calling  your  attention  to  a  few 
particulars  of  my  .own  history.  I  canrjot,  indeed,  boast  of 
10* 


114  NATIONAL  READER. 

any  very  extraordinary  incidents ;  but  having,  during  the 
course  of  a  long  life,  had  much  leisure  and  opportunity  for 
observation,  and  being  naturally  of  a  reflecting  cast,  I  thought 
it  might  be  in  my  power  to  offer  some  remarks  that  may  not 
be  wholly  unprofitable  to  your  readers. 

My  earliest  recollection  is  that  of  a  carver  and  gilder's 
workshop,  where  I  remained  for  many  m6nths,  leaning  with 
my  face  to  the  wall ;  and,  having  never  known  any  livelier 
scene,  I  was  very  well  contented  with  my  quiet  condition. 
The  first  object  that  I  remember  to  have  arrested  my  atten- 
tion, was,  what  I  now  believe  must  have  been,  a  large  spider, 
which,  after  a  vast  deal  of  scampering  about,  began,  very 
deliberately,  to  weaye  a  curious  web  all  over  my  face.  This 
afforded  me  ereat  amusement,  and,  not  then  knowing  what 
far  lovelier  objects  were  destined  to  my  gaze,  I  did  not  resenl 
the  indignity. 

At  length,  when  little  dreaming  of  any  change  of  fortune, 
I  felt  myself  suddenly  removed  from  my  station  ;  and,  im- 
mediately afterwards,  underwent  a  curious  operation,  which, 
at  the  time,  gave  me  considerable  apprehensions  for  my 
safety  ;  but  these  were  succeeded  by  pleasure,  upon  finding 
myself  arrayed  in  a  broad  black  frame,  handsomely  carved 
and  gilt ;  for,  you  will  please  to  observe  that  the  period,  of 
which  I  am  now  speaking,  was  upwards  of  fourscore  years 
ago. 

This  process  being  finished,  I  was  presently  placed  in  the 
shop  window,  with  my  face  to  the  street,  which  was  one 
of  the  most  public  in  the  city.  Here  my  attention  was,  at 
first,  distracted  by  the  constant  succession  of  objects  that 
passed  before  me.  But  it  was  not  long  before  I  began  to 
remark  the  considerable  degree  of  attention  I  myself  ex- 
cited ;  and  how  much  I  was  distinguished,  in  this  respect, 
from  the  other  articles,  my  neighbours,  in  the  vshop  window. 

I  observed,  that  passengers,  who  appeared  to  be  posting 
away  upon  urgent  business,  would  often  just  turn  and  give 
me  a  friendly  glance  as  they  passed.  But  I  was  particularly 
gratified  to  observe,  that,  while  the  old,  the  shabby  and  the 
wretched,  seldom  took  any  notice  of  me,  the  young,  the 
gay,  and  the  handsome,  generally  paid  me  this  compliment ; 
and  that  these  good-looking  people  always  seemed  the  best 
pleased  with  me ;  which  I  attributed  to  their  superior  dis- 
cernment. 

I  well  remember  one  young  lady,  who  used  to  pass  my 
tnastcr's  shop  regularly  every  morning,  in  her  way  to  school, 


NATIONAL  READER.  115 

and  who  never  omitted  to  turn  her  head  to  look  at  me  as 
she  went  by ;  so  that,  at  last,  we  became  well  acquainted 
with  each  other.  I  must  confess,  that,  at  this  period  of  my 
life,  I  was  in  great  danger  of  becoming  insufferably  vain, 
from  the  regards  that  were  then  paid  me ;  and,  perhaps,  I 
am  not  the  only  individual,  who  has  formed  mistaken  notions 
of  the  attentions  he  receives  in  society. 

My  vanity,  however,  received  a  considerable  check  from 
one  circumstance  :  nearly  all  the  goods  by  which  I  was  sur- 
rounded, in  the  shop  window, — though,  many  of  them,  much 
more  homely  in  their  structure,  and  humble  in  their  destina- 
tions,— were  disposed  of  sooner  than  myself.  I  had  the 
mortification  of  seeing  one  after  another  bargained  for  and 
sent  away,  while  I  remained,  month  after  month,  without  a 
purchaser. 

At  last,  however,  a  gentleman  and  lady,  from  the  country 
who  had  been  standing  some  time  in  the  street,  inspecting 
and,  as  I  perceived,  conversing  about  me,  walked  into  the 
shop  ;  and,  after  some  altercation  with  my  master,  agreed  to 
purchase  me ;  upon  which,  I  was  packed  up,  and  sent  off. 
I  was  very  curious,  you  may  suppose,  upon  arriving  at  my 
new  quarters,  to  see  what  kind  of  life  I  was  likely  to  lead. 
I  remained,  however,  some  time,  unmolested  in  my  packing- 
case,  and  veiyjlat  I  felt  there. 

Upon  being,  at  last,  unpacked,  I  found  myself  in  the  hall 
of  a  large,  lone  house  in  the  country.  My  master  and  mis- 
tress, I  soon  learned,  were  new-married  people,  just  setting 
up  house-keeping;  and  I  was  intended  to  decorate  their 
best  parlour,  to  which  I  was  presently  conveyed,  and,  after 
some  little  discussion  between  them,  in  fixing  my  longitude 
and  latitude,  I  was  hung  up  opposite  the  fire-place,  in  an 
angle  of  ten  degrees  from  the  wall,  according  to  the  fashion 
of  those  times. 

And  there  I  hung,  year  after  year,  almost  in  perpetual 
solitude.  My  master  and  mistress  were  sober,  regular,  old- 
fashioned  people ;  they  saw  no  company,  except  at  fair  time 
and  Christmas-day ;  on  which  occasions,  only,  they  occupied 
the  best  parlour.  My  countenance  used  to  brighten  up, 
when  I  saw  the  annual  fire  kindled  in  that  ample  grate,  and 
when  a  cheerful  circle  of  country  cousins  assembled  round 
it.  At  those  times  I  always  got  a  little  notice  from  the 
young  folks ;  but,  those  festivities  over,  I  was  condemned  to 
another  half  year  of  complete  loneliness. 

How  familiar  to  my  recollection,  at  this  hour,  is  that  large, 


116  NATIONAL  READER. 

old-fashioned  parlour !  I  can  remember,  as  well  as  if  I  had 
seen  them  but  yesterday,  the  noble  flowers  on  the  crimson 
damask  chair-covers  and  window-curtains ;  and  those  curi- 
ously carved  tables  and  chairs.  I  could  describe  every  one 
of  the  stories  on  the  Dutch  tiles  that  surrounded  the  grate, 
the  rich  China  ornaments  on  the  wide  mantel-piece,  and  the 
pattern  of  the  paper  hangings,  which  consisted  alternately 
of  a  parrot,  a  poppy,  and  a  shepherdess, — a  parrot,  a  poppy, 
and  a  shepherdess. 

The  room  being  so  little  used,  the  window-shutters  were 
rarely  opened ;  but  there  were  three  holes  cut  in  each,  in 
the  shape  of  a  heart,  through  which,  day  after  day,  and 
year  after  year,  I  used  to  watch  the  long,  dim,  dusty  sun~ 
beams,  streaming  across  the  dark  parlour.  I  should  men- 
tion, however,  that  I  seldom  missed  a  short  visit  from  my 
master  and  mistress  on  a  Sunday  morning,  when  they  came 
down  stairs  ready  dressed  for  church.  I  can  remember 
how  my  mistress  used  to  trot  in  upon  her  high-heeled 
shoes;  unfold  a  leaf  of  one  of  the  shutters;  then  come  and 
stand  straight  before  me ;  then  turn  half  round  to  the  right 
and  left ;  never  failing  to  see  if  the  corner  of  her  well-starch- 
ed handkerchief  was  pinned  exactly  in  the  middle.  I  think 
I  can  see  her  now,  in  her  favourite  dove-coloured  lustring, 
(which  she  wore  every  Sunday  in  every  summer  for  seven 
years  at  the  least,)  and  her  long,  full  ruffles,  and  worked 
apron.  Then  followed  my  good  master,  who,  though  his 
visit  was  somewhat  shorter,  never  failed  to  come  and  settle 
his  Sunday  wig  before  me. 

Time  rolled  away,  and  my  master  and  mistress,  with  all 
that  appertained  to  them,  insensibly  suffered  from  its  influ- 
ence. When  I  first  knew  them,  they  were  a  young,  bloom- 
ing couple  as  you  would  wish  to  see ;  but  I  gradually  per- 
ceived an  alteration.  My  mistress  began  to  stoop  a  little  ; 
and  my  master  got  a  cough,  which  troubled  him,  more  or 
Jess,  to  the  end  of  his  days.  At  first,  and  for  many  years, 
my  mistress'  foot  upon  the  stairs  was  light  and  nimble,  and 
she  would  come  in  as  blithe  and  as  brisk  as  a  lark  ;  but,  at 
last,  it  was  a  slow,  heavy  step ;  and  even  my  master's  began 
to  totter-  And,  in  these  respects,  every  thing  else  kept  pace 
with  them :  the  crimsov  damask,  that  I  remembered  so  fresh 
and  bright,  wras  now  faded  and  worn ;  the  dark  polished 
mahogany  was,  in  some  places,  worm  eaten ;  the  parrot's 
gay  plumage  on  the  walls  grew  dull ;  and  I  myself,  though 
long  unconscious  of  it,  partook  of  the  universal  decay. 


NATIONAL  READER.  117 

The  dissipated  taste  I  acquired  upon  my  first  introduction 
to  society,  had,  long  since,  subsided ;  and  the  quiet,  sombre 
life  I  led,  gave  me  a  grave,  meditative  turn.  The  change, 
which  I  witnessed  in  all  things  around  me,  caused  me  to 
reflect  much  on  their  vanity ;  and  when,  upon  the  occasions 
before-mentioned,  I  used  to  see  the  gay,  blooming  faces  of 
the  young  saluting  me  with  so  much  complacency,  I  would 
fain  have  admonished  them  of  the  alteration  they  must  soon 
undergo,  and  have  told  them  how  certainly  their  bloom,  also, 
must  fade  away  as  a  flower.  But,  alas f  you  know,  sir, 
looking-glasses  can  only  reflect. 


LESSON  LX. 

The  Silent  Expression  of  Nature. — ANONYMOUS.^ 
"There  is  no  speech  nor  language their  voice  is  not  heard." — Ps  xix.  3, 

WHEN,  thoughtful,  to  the  vault  of  heaven 

I  lift  my  wondering  eyes, 
And  see  the  clear  and  quiet  even 

To  night  resign  the  skies, — 
The  moon,  in  silence,  rear  her  crest, 

The  stars,  in  silence,  shine, — 
A  secret  rapture  fills  my  breast, 

That  speaks  its  birth  divine. 

Unheard,  the  dews  around  me  fall, 

And  heavenly  influence  shed, 
And,  silent,  on  this  earthly  ball, 

Celestial  footsteps  tread. 
Aerial  music  wakes  the  spheres, 

Touched  by  harmonious  powers  : 
With  sounds,  unheard  by  mortal  ears, 

They  charm  the  lingering  hours. 

Night  reigns,  in  silence,  o'er  the  pole, 

And  spreads  her  gems  unheard : 
Her  lessons  penetrate  the  soul, 

Yet  borrow  not  a  word. 

*  From  "  Musae  Bihlicce,"  published,  London  1819. 


US  NATIONAL  READER. 

Noiseless  the  sun  emits  his  fire, 
And  pours  his  golden  streams ; 

And  silently  the  shades  retire 
Before  his  rising  beams. 

The  hand  that  moves,  and  regulates, 

And  guides  the  vast  machine, — 
That  governs  wills,  and  times,  and  fates*- 

Retires,  and  works  unseen. 
Angelic  visitants  forsake 

Their  amaranthine  bowers ; 
On  silent  wing  their  stations  take, 

And  watch  the  allotted  hours. 

Sick  of  the  vanity  of  man, — 

His  noise,  and  pomp,  and  show, — 
I'll  move  upon  great  Nature's  plan, 

And,  silent,  work  below. 
With  inward  harmony  of  soul, 

I'll  wait  the  upper  sphere  ; 
Shining,  I'll  mount  above  the  pole, 

And  break  my  silence  there. 


LESSON  LXI. 
A  Thought. — BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE. 

0  COULD  we  step  into  the  grave, 

And  lift  the  coffin  lid, 
And  look  upon  the  greedy  worms 

That  eat  away  the  dead, — 

It  well  might  change  the  reddest  cheek 

Into  a  lily  white, 
And  freeze  the  warmest  blood,  to  look 

Upon  so  sad  a  sight ! 

Yet  still  it  were  a  sadder  sight, 

If,  in  that  lump  of  clay, 
There  were  a  sense,  to  feel  the  worms 

So  busy  with  their  prey. 


NATIONAL  READER.  U9 

O  pity,  then,  the  living  heart, — 

The  lump  of  living  clay, — 
On  which  the  canker-worms  of  guilt 

Forever,  ever  prey. 


LESSON  LXII. 

Fidelity. — WORDSWORTH. 

A  BARKING  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 

A  cry  as  of  a  dog  or  ^x ; — 
He  halts,  and  searches  with  his  eyes 

Among  the  scattered  rocks  : 
And  now,  at  distance,  can  discern 
A  stirring  in  a  brake  of  fern, 
From  which  immediately  leaps  out 
A  dog,  and,  yelping,  runs  about. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed  ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ; 
With  something — as  the  shepherd  thinks — 

Unusual  in  its  cry : 
Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight, 
All  round,  in  hollow,  or  on  height; 
Nor  shout,  nor  whistle,  strikes  his  ear  :— 
What  is  the  creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a  cove,  a  huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December's  snow  ; 
A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A  silent  tarrr^  below  ! 
Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 
Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway  or  cultivated  land, 
From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There,  sometimes,  does  a  leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer : 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven's  croak, 
In  symphony  austere. 

'  Tarn  is  a  small  mere  or  lake,  mostly  high  up  in  the  mountains. 


120  NATIONAL  READER. 

Thither  the  rainbow  comes ;  the  cloud ; 
And  mists,  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
And  sun-beams  ;  and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past : — 
But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it  fast. 

Not  knowing  what  to  think,  a  while 

The  shepherd  stood ;  then  makes  his  way 

To' wards  the  dog,  o'er  rocks  and  stones, 
As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 

Nor  far  had  gone,  before  he  found 

A  human  skeleton  on  the  ground : 

Sad  sight !  the  shepherd,  with  a  sigh, 

Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks, 

The  man  had  fallen, — that  place  of  fear  ! — 
At  length,  upon  the  shepherd's  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear. 
He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 
And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 
Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 
On  which  the  traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a  wonder  now,  for  sake 
Of  which  this  mournful  tale  I  tell ! 

A  lasting  monument  of  words 
This  wonder  merits  well : — 

The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering^  nigh, 

Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  dog  had  been,  through  three  months  space, 

A  dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,f  proof  was  plain,  that,  since  the  day 
On  which  the  traveller  thus  had  died, 
The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 

Or  by  his  master's  side  : 
How  nourished  here,  through  such  long  time, 
He  knows,  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate. 

*  Pron.  huv'-ur-ing.  t  yiss. 


NATIONAL  READER.  121 

LESSON  LXIII. 
Solitude. — HENRY  K.  WHITE. 

T  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow : 
It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan : 
It  is — that  I  am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I  love  to  roam, 
When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home  ; 
Or,  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 
When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet,  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 
My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead : 
It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed : — 
I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh. 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale  : — 
I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free, 
And,  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet,  in  my  dreams,  a  form  I  view, 
That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too  : 
I  start ; — and,  when  the  vision's  flown, 
I  weep,  that  I  am  all  alone. 


LESSON  LXIV. 

Necessity  of  Industry,  even  to  Genius. — V.  KNOX. 

FROM  the  revival  of  learning  to  the  present  day,  every 
thing  that  labour  and  ingenuity  can  invent,  has  been  pro- 
duced to  facilitate  the  acquisition  of  knowledge.  But,  not- 


122  NATIONAL  READER. 

withstanding  all  the  Introductions,  the  Translations,  the  An- 
notations, and  the  Interpretations,  I  must  assure  the  student, 
that  industry,  great,  and  persevering  industry,  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  secure  any  very  valuable  and  distinguished  im- 
provement. Superficial  qualifications  are  indeed  obtained  at 
an  easy  price  of  time  and  labour ;  but  superficial  qualifica- 
tions confer  neither  honour,  emolument,  nor  satisfaction. 

The  pupil  may  be  introduced,  by  the  judgment  and  the 
liberality  of  his  parents,  to  the  best  schools,  the  best  tutors, 
the  best  books ;  and  his  parents  may  be  led  to  expect,  from 
such  advantages  alone,  extraordinary  advancement.  But 
these  things  are  all  extraneous.  The  mind  of  the  pupil 
must  be  accustomed  to  submit  to  labour ;  sometimes  to 
painful  labour. 

The  poor  and  solitary  student,  who  has  never  enjoyed  any 
of  these  advantages,  but  in  the  ordinary  manner,  will,  by  his 
own  application,  emerge  to  merit,  fame,  and  fortune ;  while 
the  indolent,  who  has  been  taught  to  lean  on  the  supports 
which  opulence  supplies,  will  sink  into  insignificance.  His 
mind  will  have  contracted  habits  of  inactivity,  and  inactivity 
causes  imbecility. 

I  repeat,  that  the  first  great  object  is,  to  induce  the  mind 
to  work  within  itself,  to  think  long  and  patiently  on  the  same 
subject,  and  to  compose  in  various  styles,  and  in  various 
metres.  It  must  be  led  not  only  to  bear,  but  to  seek,  occa- 
sional solitude.  If  it  is  early  habituated  to  all  these  exer- 
cises, it  will  find  its  chief  pleasure  in  them ;  for  the  energies 
of  the  mind  affect  it  with  the  finest  feelings. 

But  is  industry,  such  industry  as  I  require,  necessary  to 
genius  ?  The  idea,  that  it  is  not  necessary,  is  productive 
of  the  greatest  evils.  We  often  form  a  wrong  judgment  in 
determining  who  is,  and  who  is  not,  endowed  with  this 
noble  privilege.  A  boy  who  appears  lively  and  talkative,  is 
often  supposed  by  his  parents  to  be  a  genius.  He  is  suffer- 
ed to  be  idle,  for  he  is  a  genius ;  and  genius  is  only  injured 
by  application. 

Now  it  usually  happens,  that  the  very  lively  and  talkative 
boy  is  the  most  deficient  in  genius.  His  forwardness  arises 
from  a  defect  of  those  fine  sensibilities,  which,  at  the  same 
time,  occasion  diffidence  and  constitute  genius.  He  ought 
to  be  inured  to  literary  labour ;  for,  without  it,  he  will  be 
prevented,  by  levity  and  stupidity,  from  receiving  any  valu- 
able impressions. 

Parents  and  instructors  must  be  very  cautious  how  they 


NATIONAL  READER.  123 

dispense  with  diligence,  from  an  idea  that  the  pupil  possesses 
genius  sufficient  to  compensate  for  the  want  of  it.  All  men 
are  liable  to  mistake  in  deciding  on  genius  at  a  very  early 
age ;  but  parents  more  than  all,  from  their  natural  partiality. 

On  no  account,  therefore,  let  them  dispense  with  close 
application.  If  the  pupil  has  genius,  this  will  improve  and 
adorn  it ;  if  he  has  not,  it  is  confessedly  requisite  to  supply 
the  defect.  Those  prodigies  of  genius,  which  require  not 
instruction,  are  rare  phenomena :  we  read,  and  we  hear  of 
such ;  but  few  of  us  have  seen  and  known  such. 

What  is  genius  worth  without  knowledge  ?  But  is  a  man 
ever  born  without  knowledge  ?  It  is  true,  that  one  man  is 
born  with  a  better  capacity  than  another,  for  the  reception 
and  retention  of  ideas ;  but  still  the  mind  must  operate  in 
collecting,  arranging,  and  discriminating  those  ideas,  which 
it  receives  with  facility.  And  I  believe  the  mind  of  a  genius 
is  often  very  laboriously  at  work,  when,  to  the  common 
observer,  it  appears  to  be  quite  inactive. 

I  most  anxiously  wish,  that  a  due  attention  may  be  paid 
to  my  exhortations,  when  I  recommend  great  and  ex'emplary 
diligence.  All  that  is  excellent  in  learning  depends  upon  it. 
And  how  can  the  time  of  a  boy  or  a  young  man  be  better 
employed  ?  It  cannot  be  more  pleasantly ;  for  I  am  sure, 
that  industry,  by  presenting  a  constant  succession  of  various 
objects,  and  by  precluding  the  listlessness  of  inaction,  ren- 
ders life,  at  all  stages  of  it,  agreeable,  and  particularly  so  in 
the  restless  season  of  youth. 

It  cannot  be  more  innocently  ;  for  learning  has  a  connex- 
ion with  virtue ;  and  he,  whose  time  is  fully  engaged,  will 
escape  many  vices  and  much  misery.  It  cannot  be  more 
usefully ;  for  he,  who  furnishes  his  mind  with  ideas,  and 
strengthens  his  faculties,  is  preparing  himself  to  become  a 
valuable  member  of  society,  whatever  place  in  it  he  may 
obtain ;  and  he  is  likely  to  obtain  an  exalted  place. 


LESSON  LXV. 

Story  of  Matilda. — GOLDSMITH. 

OUR  happiness  is  in  the  power  of  One,  who  can  bring  it 
about  in  a  thousand  unforeseen  ways,  that  mock  our  fore- 
sight. If  example  be  necessary  to  prove  this,  I'll  give  you 


124  NATIONAL  READER. 

a  story,  told  us  by  a  grave,  though  sometimes  a  romancing 
historian. 

"  Matilda  was  married,  very  young,  to  a  Neapolitan  noble- 
man of  the  first  quality,  and  found  heiself  a  widow  and  a 
mother  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  As  she  stood  one  day  caress- 
ing her  infant  son  in  the  open  window  of  an  apartment 
which  hung  over  the  river  Volturnus,  the  child,  with  a  sud- 
den spring,  leaped  from  her  arms  into  the  flood  below,  and 
disappeared  in  a  moment. 

"The  mother,  struck  with  instant  surprise,  and  making 
an  effort  to  save  him,  plunged  in  after ;  but,  far  from  being 
able  to  assist  the  infant,  she  herself,  with  great  difficulty, 
escaped  to  the  opposite  shore,  just  when  some  French  sol- 
diers were  plundering  the  country  on  that  side,  who  imme- 
diately made  her  their  prisoner. 

"  As  the  war  was  then  carried  on  between  the  French  and 
Italians  with  the  utmost  inhumanity,  they  were  going  at 
once  to  perpetrate  those  two  extremes  suggested  by  appetite 
and  cruelty.  This  base  resolution,  however,  was  opposed 
by  a  young  officer,  who,  though  their  retreat  required  the 
utmost  expedition,  placed  her  behind  him,  and  brought  her 
in  safety  to  his  native  city. 

"  Her  beauty  at  first  caught  his  eye,  her  merit,  soon  after, 
his  heart.  They  were  married :  he  rose  to  the  highest 
posts  :  they  lived  long  together,  and  were  happy.  But  the 
felicity  of  a  soldier  can  never  be  called  permanent.  After 
an  interval  of  several  years,  the  troops  which  he  command- 
ed having  met  with  a  repulse,  he  was  obliged  to  take  shel- 
ter in  the  city  where  he  had  lived  with  his  wife.  Here 
they  suffered  a  siege,  and  the  city  at  length  was  taken. 

"Few  histories  can  produce  more  various  instances  of 
cruelty,  than  those  which  the  French  and  Italians,  at  that 
time,  exercised  upon  each  other.  It  was  resolved  by  the 
victors,  upon  this  occasion,  to  put  all  the  French  prisoners 
to  death ;  but  particularly  the  husband  of  the  unfortunate 
Matilda,  as  he  was  principally  instrumental  in  protracting 
the  siege.  Their  determinations  were,  in  general,  executed 
almost  as  soon  as  resolved  upon. 

"  The  captive  soldier  was  led  forth,  and  the  executioner 
with  his  sword  stood  ready,  while  the  spectators  in  gloomy 
silence  awaited  the  fatal  blow,  which  was  only  suspended 
till  the  general,  who  presided  as  judge,  should  give  the  sig- 
nal. It  was  in  this  interval  of  anguish  and  expectation,  that 
Matilda  came  to  take  her  last  farewell  of  her  husband  and 


NATIONAL  READER.  125 

deliverer,  deploring  her  wretched  situation,  and  the  cruelty 
of  fate,  that  had  saved  her  from  perishing  by  a  premature 
death  in  the  river  Volturnus,  to  be  the  spectator  of  still 
greater  calamities. 

"  The  general,  who  was  a  young  man,  was  struck  with 
surprise  at  her  beauty,  and  pity  at  her  distress ;  but  with 
still  stronger  emotions,  when  he  heard  her  mention  her 
former  dangers.  He  was  her  son — the  infant,  for  whom  she 
had  encountered  so  much  danger.  He  acknowledged  her 
at  once  as  his  mother,  and  fell  at  her  feet.  The  rest  may 
be  easily  supposed:  the  captive  was  set  free,  and  all  the 
happiness  that  love,  friendship,  and  duty,  could  confer  on 
each,  was  enjoyed.'1 


LESSON  LXVI. 

The  Man  of  Ross.— POPE. 

BUT  all  our  praises  why  should  lords  engross? 
Rise,  honest  muse  !  and  sing  the  man  of  Ross  ; 
Pleased  Vaga  echoes  through  her  winding  bounds,    ' 
And  rapid  Severn  hoarse  applause  resounds. 
Who  hung  with  woods  yon  mountain's  sultry  brow  ? 
From  the  dry  rock  who  bade  the  waters  flow  ? 
Not  to  the  skies  in  useless  columns  tossed, 
Or  in  proud  falls  magnificently  lost, 
But  clear  and  artless,  pouring  through  the  plain 
Health  to  the  sick,  and  solace  to  the  swain. 

Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows  ? 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose  ? 
Who  taught  that  heaven-directed  spire  to  rise  ? 
"  The  man  of  Ross,"  each  lisping  babe  replies. 
Behold  the  market-place  with  poor  o'erspread  ! 
The  man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread : 
He  feeds  yon  alms-house,  neat,  but  void  of  state, 
Where  age  and  want  sit  smiling  at  the  gate : 
Him  portioned  maids,  apprenticed  orphans  blessed, 
The  young  who  labour,  and  the  aid  who  rest. 

Is  any  sick  ?     The  man  of  Ross  relieves, 
Prescribes,  attends,  the  medicine  makes,  and  gives. 
Is  there  a  variance  ?     Enter  but  his  door, 
Balked  are  the  courts,  and  contest  is  no  more. 
11* 


126  NATIONAL  READER. 

Despairing  quacks  with  curses  fled  the  place, 
And  vile  attorneys,  now  a  useless  race. 

Thrice  happy  man !  enabled  to  pursue 
What  all  so  wish,  hut  want  the  power  to  do ! 
O  say,  what  sums  that  generous  hand  supply  ? 
What  mines  to  swell  that  boundless  charity  ? — 
Of  debts,  and  taxes,  wife,  and  children  clear, 
This  man  possessed  five  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
Blush,  grandeur,  blush  !  proud  courts,  withdraw  your  blaze  I 
Ye  little  stars,  hide  your  diminished  rays ! 

And  what !  no  monument,  inscription,  stone  ! 
His  race,  his  form,  his  name,  almost  unknown !— - 
Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to  fame, 
Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name. 
Go  search  it  there,  where  to  be  born  and  die, 
Of  rich  and  poor,  makes  all  the  history ; 
Enough,  that  virtue  filled  the  space  between ;  £ 

Proved  by  the  ends  of  being  to  have  been. 


LESSON   LXVII. 

Early  Recollections. — NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

IT  is  delightful  to  fling  a  glance  back  to  our  early  years, 
and  recall  our  boyish  actions,  glittering  with  the  light  of  hope 
and  the  sanguine  expectations  of  incipient  being.  But  the 
remembrance  of  our  sensations  when  we  were  full  of  elasti- 
city, when  life  was  new,  and  every  senne  and  relish  keen, 
when  the  eye  saw  nothing  but  a  world  of  beauty  and  glory 
around,  every  object  glittering  in  golden  resplendency — is 
the  most  agreeable  thing  of  all. 

The  recollection  of  boyish  actions  gives  small  gratification 
to  persons  of  mature  years,  except  for  what  may,  perchance, 
be  associated  with  them.  But  youthful  sensations,  experi- 
enced when  the  edge  of  enjoyment  was  most  keen,  and  the 
senses  exquisitely  susceptible,  furnish  delightful  recollections, 
that  cling  around  some  of  us,  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  like 
the  principle  of  being  itself.  How  do  we  recollect  the  ex- 
quisite taste  of  a  particular  fruit  or  dish  to  have  been  then  ! 
how  delicious  a  cool  draught  from  the  running  stream  !  A 
landscape,  a  particular  tree,  a  field,  how  much  better  defined 
and  delightfully  coloured  then,  than  they  ever  appeared 
afterwards!  *  *  *  *  *  * 


NATIONAL  READER.  127 

There  was  a  single  tree  opposite  the  door  of  my  father's 
house  :  I  remember  even  now,  how  every  limb  branched  off, 
and  that  I  thought  no  tree  could  be  finer  or  larger.  I  loved 
its  shade ;  I  played  under  it  for  years ;  but  when  I  visited 
it,  after  my  first  absence  for  a  few  months  from  home,  though 
I  recognised  it  with  intense  interest,  it  appeared  lessened  in 
size ;  it  was  an  object  I  loved,  but  as  a  tree  it  no  longer 
attracted  wonder  at  its  dimensions.  During  my  absence  I 
had  travelled  in  a  forest  of  much  larger  trees,  and  the  plea- 
sure and  well-defined  image  in  my  mind's  eye,  which  I  owed 
to  the  singleness  of  this  object,  I  never  again  experienced  in 
observing  another. 

Can  I  ever  forget  the  sunny  side  of  the  wood,  where  I 
used  to  linger  away  my  hol'ydays  among  the  falling  leaves 
of  the  trees  in  autumn  !  I  can  recall  the  very  smell  of  the 
sere  foliage  to  recollection ;  and  the  sound  of  the  dashing 
water  is  even  now  in  my  ear.  The  rustling  of  the  boughs, 
the  sparkling  of  the  stream,  the  gnarled  trunks  of  the  old 
oaks  around,  long  since  levelled  by  the  axe,  left  impressions 
only  to  be  obliterated  by  death.  The  pleasure  I  then  felt 
was  ^indefinable;  but  I  was  satisfied  to  enjoy  without  caring 
whence  my  enjoyment  arose. 

The  old  church-yard  and  its  yew-trees,  where  I  sacrile- 
giously enjoyed  my  pastimes  among  the  dead, — and  the  ivied 
tower,  the  belfry  of  which  I  frequently  ascended,  and  won- 
dered at  the  skill,  which  could  form  such  ponderous  masses 
as  the  bells,  and  lift  them  so  high, — these  were  objects  that, 
on  Sundays  particularly,  often  filled  my  mind,  upon  viewing 
them,  with  a  sensation  that  cannot  be  put  into  language. 

It  was  not  joy,  but  a  soothing,  tranquil  delight,  that  made 
me  forget,  for  an  instant,  that  I  had  any  desire  in  the  world 
unsatisfied.  I  have  often  thought  since,  that  this  state  of 
mind  must  have  approached  pretty  closely  to  happiness. 
As  we  passed  the  church-way  path  to  the  old  Gothic  porch 
on  Sundays,  I  used  to  spell  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs, 
and  wonder  at  the  length  of  a  life  that  exceeded  sixty  or 
seventy  years ;  for  days  then  passed  slower  than  weeks  pass 
now. 

I  visited,  the  other  day,  the  school-room  where  I  had  been 
once  the  drudge  of  a  system  of  learning,  the  end  of  which 
1  could  not  understand,  and  where,  as  was  then  the  fash- 
ion, every  method  taken  seemed  intended  to  disgust  the 
scholar  with  those  studies  he  should  be  taught  to  love.  I 
saw  my  name  cut  in  the  desk ;  I  looked  again  on  my  old 


328  NATIONAL  READER. 

seat ;  but  my  youthful  recollections  of  the  worse  than  eastern 
slavery  I  there  endured,  made  me  regard  what  I  saw  with  a 
feeling  of  peculiar  distaste. 

If  one  thing  more  than  another  prevent  my  desiring  the 
days  of  my  youth  to  return,  it  is  the  horror  I  feel  for  the 
despotism  of  the  pedagogue.  For  years  after  I  left  school, 
I  looked  at  the  classics  with  disgust.  I  remembered  the 
heart-burnings,  the  tears,  and  the  pains,  the  monkish  method 
of  teaching — now  almost  wholly  confined  to  our  public  schools 
— had  caused  me.  It  was  long  before  I  could  take  up  a 
Horace,  much  less  enjoy  its  perusal. 

It  was  not  thus  with  the  places  I  visited  during  the  short 
space  of  cessation  from  task  and  toil  that  the  week  allowed. 
The  meadow,  where,  in  true  jovialness  of  heart,  I  had  leap- 
ed, and  raced,  and  played — this  recalled  the  contentedness 
of  mind,  and  the  overflowing  tide  of  delight  I  once  experi- 
enced, when,  climbing  the  stile  which  led  into  it,  I  left  be- 
hind me  the  book  and  the  task.  How  the  sunshine  of  the 
youthful  breast  burst  forth  upon  me,  and  the  gushing  spirit 
of  unreined  and  innocent  exhilaration  braced  every  fibre, 
and  rushed  through  every  vein  ! 

The  sun  has  never  shone  so  brilliantly  since.  How  fra- 
grant were  the  flowers  !  How  deep  the  azure  of  the  sky ! 
How  vivid  were  the  hues  of  nature  !  How  intense  the  short- 
lived sensations  of  pain  and  pleasure !  How  generous  were 
all  impulses  !  How  confiding,  open,  and  upright,  all  actions ! 
"  Inhumanity  to  the  distressed,  and  insolence  to  the  fallen," 
those  besetting  sins  of  manhood,  how  utterly  strangers  to 
the  heart !  How  little  of  sordid  interests,  and  how  much  of 
intrepid  honesty,  was  then  displayed !  ^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

The  sensations  peculiar  to  youth,  being  the  result  of  im- 
pulse rather  than  reflection,  have  the  advantage  over  those 
of  manhood,  however  the  pride  of  reason  may  give  the  lat- 
ter the  superiority.  In  manhood  there  is  always  a  burden 
of  thought  bearing  on  the  wheels  of  enjoyment.  In  man- 
hood, too,  we  have  the  misfortune  of  seeing  the  wrecks  of 
early  associations  scattered  every  where  around  us.  Youth 
can  see  nothing  of  this.  It  can  take  no  review  of  antece- 
dent pleasures  or  pains  that  become  such  a  source  of  melan- 
choly emotion  in  mature  years.  It  has  never  sauntered 
through  the  rooms  of  a  building,  and  recalled  early  dayu 
spent  under  its  roof. 

I  remember  my  feelings  on  an  occasion  of  this  sort,  when 
I  was  like  a  traveller  on  the  plain  of  Babylon,  wondering 


NATIONAL  READER.  129 

where  all,  that  had  once  been  to  me  so  great  and  mighty, 
then  was ;  in  what  gulf  the  sounds  of  merriment,  that  once 
reverberated  from  the  walls,  the  master,  the  domestic,  the 
aged,  and  the  young,  had  disappeared.  Our  early  recollec- 
tions are  pleasing  to  us,  because  they  look  not  on  the  mor- 
row. Alas!  what  did  that  morrow  leave  when  it  had 
become  merged  in  the  past ! 

I  have  lately  traversed  the  village  in  which  I  was  born, 
without  discovering  a  face  that  I  knew.  Houses  have  been 
demolished,  fronts  altered,  tenements  built,  trees  rooted  up, 
and  alterations  effected,  that  made  me  feel  a  stranger  amid 
the  home  of  my  fathers.  The  old-fashioned  and  roomy 
house,  where  my  infant  years  had  been  watched  by  parental 
affection,  had  been  long  uninhabited :  it  was  in  decay :  the 
storm  beat  through  its  fractured  windows,  and  it  was  partly 
roofless.  The  garden,  and  its  old  elms,  the  scene  associated 
with  the  cherished  feelings  of  many  a  happy  hour,  lay  a 
weedy  waste : 

Amid  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries  ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall ! 

But  the  picture  it  presented  in  my  youth  exhibits  it  as  true 
and  vivid  as  ever.  It  is  hung  up  in  memory  in  all  its  fresh- 
ness, and  time  cannot  dilapidate  its  image.  It  is  now  become 
an  essence,  that  defies  the  mutability  of  material  things.  It 
is  fixed  in  ethereal  colours  on  the  tablets  of  the  mind,  and 
lives  within  the  domain  of  spirit,  within  the  circumference 
of  which  the  universal  spoiler  possesses  no  sovereignty. 


LESSON  LXVIII. 

On  visiting  a  Scene  of  Childhood. — BLACKWOOD'S  MAGAZINE, 

"I  came  to  the  place  of  my  birth,  and  said,  'The  friends  of  my  youth,  where 
are  they?'  and  Echo  answered,  'Where  are  they?'" 

LONG  years  had  elapsed  since  I  gazed  on  the  scene, 
Which  my  fancy  still  robed  in  its  freshness  of  green, — 
The  spot  where,  a  school-boy,  all  thoughtless,  I  strayed 
By  the  side  of  the  stream,  in  the  gloom  of  the  shade. 


130  NATIONAL  READER. 

I  thought  of  the  friends,  who  had  roamed  with  me  there, 
When  the  sky  was  so  blue,  and  the  flowers  were  so  fair, — 
All  scattered  ! — -all  sundered  by  mountain  and  wave, 
And  some  in  the  silent  embrace  of  the  grave ! 

fefvi  \ 

I  thought  of  the  green  banks,  that  circled  around, 

With  wild-flowers,  and  sweet-brier,  and  eglantine  crowned : 

I  thought  of  the  river,  all  quiet  and  bright 

As  the  face  of  the  sky  on  a  blue  summer  night : 

And  I  thought  of  the  trees,  under  which  we  had  strayed, 
Of  the  broad  leafy  boughs,  with  their  coolness  of  shade  ; 
And  I  hoped,  though  disfigured,  some  token  to  find 
Of  the  names,  and  the  carvings,  impressed  on  the  rind. 

All  eager,  I  hastened  the  scene  to  behold, 
Rendered  sacred  and  dear  by  the  feelings  of  old  ,c 
And  I  deemed  that,  unaltered,  my  eye  should  explore 
This  refuge,  this  haunt,  this  Elysium  of  yore. 

'Twas  a  dream ! — not  a  token  or  trace  could  1  view 
Of  the  names  that  I  loved,  of  the  trees  that  I  knew : 
Like  the  shadows  of  night  at  the  dawning  of  day, 
"  Like  a  tale  that  is  told" — they  had  vanished  away. 

And  methought  the  lone  river,  that  rmirmured  along, 
Was  more  dull  in  its  motion,  more  sad  in  its  song, 
Since  the  birds,  that  had  nestled  and  warbled  above, 
Had  all  fled  from  its  banks,  at  the  fall  of  the  grove. 

I  paused : — and  the  moral  came  home  to  my  heart : — 
Behold,  how  of  earth  all  the  glories  depart ! 
Our  visioti?  are  baseless, — our  hopes  but  a  gleam, — 
Our  staff  but  a  reed, — and  our  life  but  a  dream. 

Then,  O,  let  us  look — let  our  prospects  allure — 
To  scenes  that  can  fade  not,  to  realms  that  endure, 
To  glories,  to  blessings,  that  triumph  sublime 
O'er  the  blightings  of  Change,  and  the  ruins  of  Time. 


NATIONAL  READER.  131 

LESSON  LXIX. 

The  Little  Graves. — ANONYMOUS. 

'TwAS  autumn,  and  the  leaves  were  dry, 

And  rustled  on  the  ground, 
And  chilly  winds  went  whistling  by, 

With  low  and  pensive  sound. 

As  through  the  grave-yard's  lone  retreat, 

By  meditation  led, 
I  walked,  with  slow  and  cautious  feet, 

Above  the  sleeping  dead, — 

Three  little  graves,  ranged  side  by  side, 

My  close  attention  drew ; 
O'er  two,  the  tall  grass,  bending,  sighed, 

And  one  seemed  fresh  and  new. 

As,  lingering  there,  I  mused  awhile 

On  death's  long,  dreamless  sleep, 
And  opening  life's  deceitful  smile, 

A  mourner  came  to  weep. 

Her  form  was  bowed,  but  not  with  years, 

Her  words  were  faint  and  few, 
And  on  those  little  graves  her  tears 

Distilled  like  evening  dew. 

A  prattling  boy,  some  four  years  old, 

Her  trembling  hand  embraced, 
And  from  my  heart  the  tale  he  told 

Will  never  be  effaced. 

"  Mamma' ,^  now  you  must  love  me  more, 

For  little  sister's  dead ; 
And  t'other  sister  died  before, 

And  brother  loo,  you  said. 

*  Mamma,  what  made  sweet  sister  die  ? 

She  loved  me  when  we  played : 
You  told  me,  if  I  would  not  cry, 

You'd  show  me  where  she's  laid." 
*  a  sounded  as  in  father* 


132  NATIONAL  READEK. 

"'Tis  here,  my  child,  that  sister  lies, 

Deep  buried  in  the  ground : 
No  light  comes  to  her  little  eyes, 

And  she  can  hear  no  sound." 

"Mamma,  why  can't  we  take  her  up, 

And  put  her  in  my  bed  ? 
I'll  feed  her  from  my  little  cup, 

And  then  she  won't  be  dead. 

"  For  sister'll  be  afraid  to  lie 

In  this  dark  grave  to-night, 
And  she'll  be  very  cold,  and  cry, 

Because  there  is  no  light." 

"  No,  sister  is  not  cold,  my  child ; 

For  God,  who  saw  her  die, 
As  he  looked  down  from  heaven  and  smited, 

Recalled  her  to  the  sky. 

"  And  then  her  spirit  quickly  fled 
To  God,  by  whom  'twas  given ; 

Her  body  in  the  ground  is  dead, 
But  sister  lives  in  heaven." 

"  Mamma,  won't  she  be  hungry  there, 
And  want  some  bread  to  eat  ? 

And  who  will  give  her  clothes  to  wear, 
And  keep  them  clean  and  neat  ? 

"  Papa'  must  go  and  carry  some ; 

I'll  send  her  all  I've  got ; 
And  he  must  bring  sweet  sister  home, 

Mamma,  now  must  he  not  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear  child,  that  cannot  be  ; 

But,  if  you're  good  and  true, 
You'll  one  day  go  to  'her ;  but  she 

Can  never  come  to  you. 

" '  Let  little  children  come  to  me? 

Once  our  good  Saviour  said, 
And  in  his  arms  she'll  always  be, 

And  God  will  give  her  bread.'1 


NATIONAL  READER.  133 

LESSON  LXX. 

Life  and  Death. — NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

0  FEAR  not  thou  to  die  ! 

But  rather  fear  to  live ;  for  life 
Has  thousand  snares  thy  feet  to  try, 

By  peril,  pain,  and  strife. 
Brief  is  the  work  of  death ; 

But  life  ! — the  spirit  shrinks  to  see 
How  full,  ere  heaven  recalls  the  breath, 

The  cup  of  wo  may  be. 

O  fear  not  thou  to  die ! 

No  more  to  suffer  or  to  sin ; 
No  snares  without,  thy  faith  to  try, 

No  traitor  heart  within  : 
But  fear,  O !  rather  fear, 

The  gay,  the  light,  the  changeful  scene, 
The  flattering  smiles  that  greet  thee  here, 

From  heaven  thy  heart  to  wean, 

Fear,  lest,  in  evil  hour, — 

Thy  pure  and  holy  hope  overcome, 
By  clouds  that  in  the  horizon  lower, — 

Thy  spirit  feel  that  gloom, 
Which,  over  earth  and  heaven, 

The  covering  throws  of  fell  despair ; 
And  deems  itself  the  unforgiven, 

Predestined  child  of  care. 

0  fear  not  thou  to  die  ! 

To  die,  and  be  that  blessed  one, 
Who,  in  the  bright  and  beauteous  sky, 

May  feel  his  conflict  done — 
May  feel  that,  never  more, 

The  tear  of  grief  or  shame  shall  come, 
For  thousand  wanderings  from  the  Power 

Who  loved,  and  called  him  home ! 
12 


134  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON   LXXI. 

The  Burial  of  Arnold*—  N.  P.  WILLIS. 

YE'VE  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer, 

With  slow  and  measured  tread : 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there — • 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length* 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days,  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously, 
And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
$O,  had  it  been  but  told  you  then, 
To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim, 
i    From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 
Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm,  which  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung, 

Yet  not  for  glorying  ? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he — go  and  look  ! 

On  now — his  requiem  is  done, 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades — on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead ! 
Slow — for  it  presses  heavily— 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear ! 
Slow,  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noble  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades! — we  have  laid 
His  dark  locks  on  his  brow — 

*  A  member  of  the  senior  class  in  Yale  College. 


* *  1 1 


NATIONAL  READER. 

Like  life — save  deeper  light  and  shade  :— 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly — for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue  veined  eye-lid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull^-fc  f.t 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Best  now  ! — his  journeying  is  done — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod — 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion — 

He  waiteth  here  his  God ! 
Ay — turn  and  weep — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here — 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


LESSON  LXXII. 

Cruelty  to  Animals  reproved. — MAYOR. 

A  YOUNGSTER,  whose  name  we  shall  conceal,  because  it 
is  riot  for  his  credit  it  should  be  known,  was  amusing  him- 
self with  a  beetle  stuck  on  a  pin,  and  seemed  vastly  de- 
lighted with  the  gyrations^  it  made,  occasioned  by  the  torture 
it  felt.  Harley  saw  this  with  emotion  ;  lor  he  would  not  wan- 
tonly have  injured  the  most  contemptible  animal  that  breathes. 

He  rebuked  the  unfeeling  youth  in  the  following  terms  ; 
and  the  impression,  which  the  lecture  made,  was  never  after 
effaced  from  his  mind  :  "  I  am  deeply  concerned,"  said  he, 
"  to  observe  any  one,  whom  I  so  tenderly  love,  fond  of 
cruel  sport.  Do  you  think  that  the  poor  beetle,  which  you 
are  thus  agonizing,  is  incapable  of  sensation  ?  And  if  you 
are  aware  that  it  feels  pain  as  well  as  you,  how  can  you 
receive  amusement  from  its  torture  ?  Animals,  it  is  true, 
were  formed  for  the  use  of  man ;  but  reason  and  humanity 
forbid  us  to  abuse  them. 

"  Every  creature,  not  immediately  noxious  to  our  kind, 
ought  to  be  cherished,  or,  at  least,  not  injured.  The  heart  of 
sensibility  bleeds  for  misery  wherever  it  is  seen.  No  amuse- 
ment can  be  rational  that  is  founded  on  another's  pain  I 
know  you  take  delight  in  bird-nesting  :  1  wish  to  discourage 
this  pursuit  too. 

*  g  sounded  like  J. 


136  NATIONAL  READER. 

"  Consider  how  little  you  gain,  and  how  much  distress  you 
occasion  to  some  of  the  most  beautiful  and  lovely  of  crea- 
tion's tribes.  You  destroy  the  eggs,  from  which  the  fond 
bird  hoped  to  rear  an  offspring ;  or,  what  is  still  more  cruel, 
you  rob  hereof  her  young,  when  maternal  care  and  affection 
are  at  the  highest  pitch.  Could  you  possibly  conceive  what 
the  parent  bird  must  suffer  from  this  deprivation,  you  would 
be  ashamed  of  your  insensibility. 

"  The  nightingale,  robbed  of  her  tender  young,  is  said  to 
sing  most  sweetly ;  but  it  is  the  plaintive  voice  of  lacerated 
nature,  not  the  note  of  joy.  It  should  be  heard  as  the  ex- 
pression of  distress ;  and,  if  you  are  the  cause  of  it,  you 
ought  to  apply  it  to  yourself. 

c  O  then,  ye  friends  of  love,  and  love-taught  song, 
Spare  the  soft  tribes !  this  barbarous  art  forbear 
If  on  your  bosom  innocence  can  win, 
Music  engage,  or  piety  persuade !' 

"  Even  the  meanest  insects  receive  an  existence  from  the 
Author  of  our  being;  and  why  should  you  abridge  their 
span  ?  They  have  their  little  sphere  of  bliss  allotted  them ; 
they  have  purposes,  which  they  are  destined  to  fulfil;  and, 
when  these  are  accomplished,  they  die.  Thus  it  is  with 
you  !  You  have,  indeed,  a  more  extensive  range  of  action, 
more  various  and  important  duties  to  discharge;  and  well 
will  it  be  for  you  if  you  discharge  them  aright. 

"  But  think  not,  because  you  have  reason  and  superiority 
given  you,  that  irrational  animals  are  beneath  your  regard. 
In  proportion  as  you  enjoy  the  benefits  they  are  adapted  to 
confer,  you  should  be  careful  to  treat  them  with  tenderness 
and  humanity :  it  is  the  only  return  you  can  make.  Re- 
member, every  thing  that  has  life  is  doomed  to  suffer  and  to 
feel,  though  its  expression  of  pain  may  not  be  capable  of 
being  conveyed  to  your  ears. 

"  To  the  most  worthless  reptile,  to  the  most  noxious  ani- 
mal, some  pity  is  due.  If  its  life  is  dangerous  to  you,  it  may 
be  destroyed  without  blame  ;  but  let  it  be  done  without  cruel- 
ty. To  torture  is  unmanly ;  to  tyrannise,  where  there  can 
be  no  resistance,  is  the  extreme  of  baseness. 

"  I  never  knew  an  amiable  person,  who  did  not  feel  an 
attachment  for  animals.  A  boy  who  is  not  fond  of  his  bird, 
his  rabbit,  his  dog,  or  his  horse,  or  whatever  other  creature 
he  takes  under  his  protection,  will  never  have  a  good  heart, 
and  will  always  be  wanting  in  affection  to  his  own  kind. 


NATIONAL  READER.  137 

But  he,  who,  after  admonition,  delights  in  misery,  or  sports 
with  life,  must  have  a  disposition  and  a  heart  that  I  should 
blush  to  own :  he  is  neither  qualified  to  be  happy  himself, 
nor  will  he  ever  make  others  so." 


LESSON  LXXIII. 

Impolicy  and  Injustice  of  Excessive  Severity  in  Punishments.— 

GoLDSBIITH. 

IT  were  highly  to  be  wished,  that  legislative  power  would 
direct  the  law  rather  to  reformation  than  severity ;  that  it 
would  seem  convinced,  that  the  work  of  eradicating  crimes 
is  not  by  making  punishments  familiar,  but  formidable.  Then, 
instead  of  our  present  prisons,  which  find,  or  make  men 
guilty ;  which  enclose  wretches  for  the  commission  of  one 
crime,  and  return  them,  if  returned  alive,  fitted  for  the  per- 
petration of  thousands ;  it  were  to  be  wished,  we  had  places 
of  penitence  and  solitude,  where  the  accused  might  be  at- 
tended by  such  as  could  give  them  repentance,  if  guilty,  or 
new  motives  to  virtue,  if  innocent.  And  this,  but  not  the 
increasing  of  punishments,  is  the  way  to  mend  a  state. 

Nor  can  I  avoid  even  questioning  the  validity  of  that 
right,  which  social  combinations  have  assumed,  of  capitally 
punishing  offences  of  a  slight  nature.  In  cases  of  murdei 
their  right  is  obvious,  as  it  is  the  duty  of  us  all,  from  the 
law  of  self-defence,  to  cut  off  that  man  who  hath  shown  a 
disregard  for  the  life  of  another.  Against  such  all  nature 
rises  in  arms. 

But  it  is  not  so  against  him  who  steals  my  property.  Na- 
tural law  gives  me  no  right  to  take  away  his  life,  as,  by  that, 
the  horse  he  steals  is  as  much  his  property  as  mine.  If, 
then,  I  have  any  right,  it  must  be  from  a  compact  made  be- 
tween us,  that  he,  who  deprives  the  other  of  his  horse,  shall 
die.  But  this  is  a  false  compact;  because  no  man  has  a 
right  to  barter  his  life,  any  more  than  to  take  it  away,  as  it 
is  not  his  own. 

And,  besides,  the  compact  is  inadequate,  and  would  be 
set  aside,  even  in  a  court  of  modern  equity,  as  theie  is  a  great 
penalty  for  a  trifling  convenience ;  since  it  is  far  better  that 
two  men  should  live,  than  that  one  should  ride.  But  a 
compact  that  is  false  between  two  men,  is  equally  so 
12* 


138  NATIONAL  HEADER. 

between  a  hundred  and  a  hundred  thousand ;  for  as  ten 
millions  of  circles  can  never  make  a  square,  so  the  united 
voice  of  myriads  cannot  lend  the  smallest  foundation  to 
falsehood. 

It  is  thus  that  reason  speaks,  and  untutored  nature  says 
the  same  thing.  Savages,  that  are  directed  by  natural  law 
alone,  are  tender  of  the  lives  of  each  other ;  they  seldom 
shed  blood  but  to  retaliate  former  cruelty.  ^  ^  *  ^  *=  ^ 

It  were  to  be  wished,  then,  that  power  instead  of  contriv- 
ing new  laws  to  punish  vice ;  instead  of  drawing  hard  the 
cords  of  society,  till  a  convulsion  come  to  burst  them ;  in- 
stead of  cutting  away  wretches  as  useless,  before  we  have 
tried  their  utility ;  instead  of  converting  correction  into  ven- 
geance ;  it  were  to  be  wished,  that  we  tried  the  restrictive 
arts  of  government,  and  made  law  the  protector,  but  not  the 
tyrant,  of  the  people. 

We  should  then  find,  that  creatures,  whose  souls  are  held 
as  dross,  only  wanted  the  hand  of  a  refiner ;  we  should  then 
find,  that  wretches,  now  stuck  up  for  long  tortures,  lest  luxu- 
ry should  feel  a  momentary  pang,  might,  if  properly  treated, 
serve  to  sinew  the  state  in  times  of  danger;  that,  as  their 
faces  are  like  ours,  their  hearts  are  so  too ;  that  few  minds 
are  so  base  as  that  perseverance  cannot  amend ;  that  a  man 
may  see  his  last  crime  without  dying  for  it ;  and  that  very 
little  blood  will  serve  to  cement  our  security. 


LESSON  LXXIV. 

Address  to  Liberty. — COWPER. 

O,  COULD  I  worship  aught  beneath  the  skies 
That  earth  hath  seen,  or  fancy  could  devise, 
Thine  altar,  sacred  Liberty,  should  stand, 
Built  by  no  mercenary,  vulgar  hand, 
With  fragrant  turf,  and  flowers  as  wild  and  fair 
As  ever  dressed  a  bank,  or  scented  summer  air. 

Duly,  as  ever  on  the  mountain's  height 
The  peep  of  morning  shed  a  dawning  light ; 
Again,  when  evening  in  her  sober  vest 
Drew  the  gray  curtain  of  the  fading  west ; 
My  soul  should  yield  thee  willing  thanks  and  praise 
For  the  chief  bhssings  of  my  fairest  days : 


NATIONAL  READER.  139 

But  that  were  sacrilege :  praise  is  not  thine, 

But  His,  who  gave  thee,  and  preserves  thee  mine  : 

Else  I  would  say, — and,  as  I  spake,  bid  fly 

A  captive  bird  into  the  boundless  sky, — 

This  rising  realm  adores  thee ;  thou  art  come 

From  Sparta  hither,  and  art  here  at  home ; 

We  feel  thy  force  still  active ;  at  this  hour 

Enjoy  immunity  from  priestly  power ; 

While  conscience,  happier  than  in  ancient  years, 

Owns  no  superior,  but  the  God  she  fears. 

Propitious  Spirit !  yet  expunge  a  wrong 
Thy  rights  have  suffered,  and  our  land,  too  long  ; 
Teach  mercy  to  ten  thousand  hearts,  that  share 
The  fears  and  hopes  of  a  commercial  care  : 
Prisons  expect  the  wicked,  and  were  built 
To  bind  the  lawless,  and  to  punish  guilt ; 
But  shipwreck,  earthquake,  battle,  fire,  and  flood, 
Are  mighty  mischiefs,  not  to  be  withstood  : 
And  honest  merit  stands  on  slippery  ground, 
Where  covert  guile,  and  artifice  abound. 
Let  just  restraint,  for  public  peace  designed, 
Chain  up  the  wolves  and  tigers  of  mankind  : — 
The  foe  of  virtue  has  no  claim  to  thee  : — - 
But  let  insolvent  innocence  go  free. 


LESSON  LXXV. 

The  Hermit. — BEATTIE. 

AT  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is  still, — 

And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forge  tfulness  prove; 
When  nought  but  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the  hill, 

And  nought  but  the  nightingale's  song  in  the  grove ; — 
'Twas  then,  by  the'  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 

While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a  hermit  began ; — 
No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 

He  thought  as  a  sage,  while  he  felt  as  a  man ; — 

"  Ah,  why,  thus  abandoned  to  darkness  and  wo, 
Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a  lover  bestow, 
And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  enthral. 


140  NATIONAL  READER. 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  thy  sad  lay  ; 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee  to  mourn : 
O  soothe  him,  whose  pleasures,  like  thine,  pass  away — 

Full  quickly  they  pass— but  they  never  return. 

"  Now,  gliding  remote,  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  displays : 
But  lately  I  marked,  when,  majestic  on  high, 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her  blaze. 
Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pursue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again  : 
But  man'h  faded  glory  no  change  shall  renew  ! 

Ah  fool !  to  exult  in  a  glory  so  vain  ! 

"  'Tis  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no  more ; 

I  mourn,  but,  ye  woodlands,  I  mourn  not  for  you  ; 
For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  restore, 

Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering  with  dew 
Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  winter  I  mourn : 

Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save : 
But  when  shall  spring  visit  the  mouldering  urn  ! 

O  when  shall  it  dawn  on  the  night  of  the  grave !" 

'Twas  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  betrayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind, 
My  thoughts  wont  to  roam,  from  shade  onward  to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me  and  sorrow  behind  : 
"  O  pity,  great  Father  of  light,"  then  I  cried, 

"  Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander  from  thee ! 
Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I  relincmish  my  pride ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  thou  only  canst  free." 

And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying  away : 

No  longer  I  roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 
So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  cf  morn. 
See  Truth,  Love,  and  Mercy,  in  triumph  descending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden's  first  bloom  ! 
On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smiles  and  roses  are  blending, 

And  Beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb. 


NATIONAL  READER.  141 

LESSON  LXXVI. 

Hymn  to  the  Stars. — MONTHLY  REPOSITORY. 

AY,  there  ye  shine,  and  there  have  shone, 

In  one  eternal  '  hour  of  prime,' 
Each  rolling  burningly,  alone, 

Through  boundless  space  and  countless  time. 
Ay,  there  ye  shine,  the  golden  dews 

That  pave  the  realms  by  seraphs  trod ; 
There,  through  yon  echoing  vault,  diffuse 

The  song  of  choral  worlds  to  God. 

Ye  visible  spirits !  bright  as  erst 

Young  Eden's  birthnight  saw  ye  shine 
On  all  her  flowers  and  fountains  first, 

Yet  sparkling  from  the  hand  divine  ; 
Yes,  bright  as  then  ye  smiled,  to  catch 

The  music  of  a  sphere  so  fair, 
YQ  hold  your  high,  immortal  watch, 

And  gird  your  God's  pavilion  there. 

Clold  frets  to  dust, — yet  there  ye  are ; 

Time  rots  the  diamond, — there  ye  roll 
In  primal  light,  as  if  each  star 

Enshrined  an  everlasting  soul ! 
And  does  it  not — since  your  bright  throngs 

One  all-enlightening  Spirit  own, 
Praised  there  by  pure,  sidereal  tongues, 

Eternal,  glorious,  blest,  alone  ? 

Could  man  but  see  what  ye  have  seen, 

Unfold  awhile  the  shrouded  past, 
From  all  that  is,  to  what  has  been, 

The  glance  how  rich  !  the  range  how  vast ! 
The  birth  of  time,  the  rise,  the  fall 

Of  empires,  myriads,  ages  flown, 
Thrones,  cities,  tongues,  arts,  worships, — all 

The  things  whose  echoes  are  not  gone. 

Ye  saw  rapt  Zoroaster  send 

His  soul  into  your  mystic  reign; 
Ye  saw  the  adoring  Sabian  bend — 

The  living  hills  his  mighty  fane ! 


142  NATIONAL  READER. 

Beneath  his  blue  and  beaming  sky, 
He  worshipped  at  your  lofty  shrine, 

And  deemed  he  saw,  with  gifted  eye, 
The  Godhead  in  his  works  divine. 

And  there  ye  shine,  as  if  to  mock 

The  children  of  a  mortal  sire. 
The  storm,  the  bolt,  the  earthquake's  shock, 

The  red  volcano's  cataract  fire, 
Drought,  famine,  plague,  and  blood,  and  flame, 

All  nature's  ills, — and  life's  worse  woes, — 
Are  nought  to  you :  ye  smile  the  same, 

And  scorn  alike  their  dawn  and  close. 

Ay,  there  ye  roll— emblems  sublime 

Of  Him,  whose  spirit  o'er  us  moves, 
Beyond  the  clouds  of  grief  and  crime, 

Still  shining  on  the  world  he  loves  : — 
Nor  is  one  scene  to  mortals  given, 

That  more  divides  the  soul  and  sod, 
Than  yon  proud  heraldry  of  heaven — 

Yon  burning  blazonry  of  God ! 


LESSON  LXXVII. 

Religion  the  only  Basis  of  Society. — CHANNING. 

RELIGION  is  a  social  concern ;  for  it  operates  powerfully 
on  society,  contributing,  in  various  ways,  to  its  stability  and 
prosperity.  Religion  is  riot  merely  a  private  affair ;  the 
community  is  deeply  interested  in  its  diffusion ;  for  it  is  the 
best  support  of  the  virtues  and  principles,  on  which  the 
social  order  rests.  Pure  and  undefiled  religion  is,  to  do 
good ;  and  it  follows,  very  plainly,  that,  if  God  be  the  Author 
and  Friend  of  society,  then,  the  recognition  of  him  must  en- 
force all  social  duty,  and  enlightened  piety  must  give  its 
whole  strength  to  public  order. 

Few  men  suspect,  perhaps  no  man  comprehends,  the  ex- 
tent of  the  support  given  by  religion  to  every  virtue.  No 
man,  perhaps,  is  aware,  how  much  our  moral  and  social 
sentiments  are  fed  from  this  fountain  ;  how  powerless  con- 
science would  become,  without  the  belief  of  a  God ;  how 


NATIONAL  READER.  143 

palsied  would  be  human  benevolence,  were  there  not  the 
sense  of  a  higher  benevolence  to  quicken  and  sustain  it ; 
how  suddenly  the  whole  social  fabric  would  quake,  and  with 
what  a  fearful  crash  it  would  sink  into  hopeless  ruin,  wrere 
the  ideas  of  a  supreme  Being,  of  accountableness,  and  of  a 
future  life,  to  be  utterly  erased  from  every  mind. 

And,  let  men  thoroughly  believe  that  they  are  the  work 
and  sport  of  chance  ;  that  no  superior  intelligence  concerns 
itself  with  human  affairs  ;  that  all  their  improvements  perish 
forever  at  death ;  that  the  weak  hare  no  guardian,  and  the 
injured  no  avenger ;  that  there  is  no  recompense  for  sacri- 
fices to  uprightness  and  the  public  good ;  that  an  oath  is 
unheard  in  heaven ;  that  secret  crimes  have  no  witness  but 
the  perpetrator ;  that  human  existence  has  no  purpose,  and 
human  virtue  no  unfailing  friend;,  that  this  brief  life  is 
every  thing  to  us,  and  death  is  total,  everlasting  extinction ; 
once  let  them  thoroughly  abandon  religion;  and  who  can 
conceive  or  describe  the  extent  of  the  desolation  which  would 
follow ! 

We  hope,  perhaps,  that  human  laws  and  natural  sympathy 
would  hold  society  together.  As  reasonably  might  we 
believe,  that,  were  the  sun  quenched  in  the  heavens,  our 
torches  would  illuminate,  and  our  fires  quicken  and  fertilize 
the  creation.  What  is  there  in  human  nature  to  awaken 
respect  and  tenderness,  if  man  is  the  unprotected  insect  of  a 
day  ?  And  what  is  he  more,  if  atheism  be  true  ? 

Erase  all  thought  and  fear  of  God  from  a  community,  and 
selfishness  and  sensuality  would  absorb  the  whole  man.  Ap- 
petite, knowing  no  restraint,  and  suffering,  having  no  solace 
or  hope,  would  trample  in  scorn  on  the  restraints  of  human 
laws.  Virtue,  duty,  principle,  would  be  mocked  and  spurn- 
ed as  unmeaning  sounds.  A  sordid  self-interest  would  sup- 
plant every  other  feeling ;  and  man  would  become,  in  fact, 
what  the  theory  of  atheism  declares  him  to  be,— a  compan- 
ion for  brutes. 


LESSON  LXXVIII. 

Punishment  of  a  Liar. — BIBLE. 

Now  Na'uman,  captain  of  the  host  of  the  king  of  Syria, 
was  a  great  man  with  his  master,  and  honourable ;  because 


M4  NATIONAL  READER. 

by  him  the  Lord  had  given  deliverance  unto  Syria  :  he  was 
also  a  mighty  man  in  valour ;  but  he  was  a  lep'er.  And 
the  Syrians  had  gone  out  by  companies,  and  had  brought 
away  captive,  out  of  the  land  of  Israel,  a  little  maid ;  and 
she  waited  on  Naaman's  wife.  And  she  said  unto  her  mis- 
tress, Would  God  my  lord  were  with  the  prophet  that  is  in 
Samaria !  for  he  would  recover  him  of  his  leprosy. 

And  one  went  in,  and  told  his  lord,  saying,  Thus  and  thus 
said  the  maid  that  is  of  the  land  of  Israel.  And  the  king  of 
Syria  said,  Go  to,  go  ;  and  I  will  send  a  letter  unto  the  king 
of  Israel.  And  he  departed,  and  took  with  him  ten  talents 
of  silver,  and  six  thousand  pieces  of  gold,  and  ten  changes 
of  raiment.  And  he  brought  the  letter  to  the  king  of  Israel, 
saying,  Now,  when  this  letter  is  come  unto  thee,  behold,  1 
have  therewith  sent  Naaman  my  servant  to  thee,  that  thou 
mayest  recover  him  of  his  leprosy. 

And  it  came  to  pass,  when  the  king  of  Israel  had  read  the 
letter,  that  he  rent  his  clothes,  and  said,  Am  I  God,  to  kill 
and  to  make  alive,  that  this  man  doth  send  unto  me  to  recover 
a  man  of  his  leprosy  ?  Wherefore  consider,  I  pray  you,  and 
see  how  he  seeketh  a  quarrel  against  me. 

And  it  was  so,  when  Elisha,  the  man  of  God,  had  heard 
that  the  king  of  Israel  had  rent  his  clothes,  that  he  sent  to 
the  king,  saying,  Wherefore  hast  thou  rent  thy  clothes  ?  let 
him  come  now  to  me,  and  he  shall  know  that  there  is  a  pro- 
phet in  Israel.  So  Naaman  came,  with  his  horses  and  with 
his  chariot,  and  stood  at  the  door  of  the  house  of  Elisha. 
And  Elisha  sent  a  messenger  unto  him,  saying,  Go  and 
wash  in  Jordan  seven  times,  and  thy  flesh  shall  come  again 
to  thee,  and  thou  shalt  be  clean. 

But  Naaman  was  wroth,  and  went  away,  and  said,  Behold, 
I  thought,  He  will  surely  come  out  to  me,  and  stand,  and 
call  on  the  name  of  the  Lord  his  God,  and  strike  his  hand 
over  the  place,  and  recover  the  leper.  Are  not  Ab'ana  and 
Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus,  better  than  all  the  waters  of 
Israel  ?  may  I  not  wash  in  them,  and  be  clean  ?  So  he 
turned,  and  went  away  in  a  rage. 

And  his  servants  came  near,  and  spake  unto  him,  and  said, 
My  father,  if  the  prophet  had  bid  thee  do  some  great  thing, 
wouldest  thou  not  have  done  it  ?  how  much  rather,  then, 
when  he  saith  to  -hee,  Wash,  and  be  clean  ?  Then  went  he 
down,  and  dipped  himself  seven  times  in  Jordan,  according 
to  the  saying  of  tie  man  of  God  :  and  his  flesh  came  again 
like  unto  the  flesii  of  a  little  child,  and  he  was  clean. 


NATIONAL  READER.  145 

And  lie  returned  to  the  man  of  God,  he  and  all  his  com- 
pany, and  came  and  stood  before  him  :  arid  he  said,  Behold, 
now  I  know  that  there  is  no  God  in  all  the  earth  but  in 
Israel  ;  now  therefore,  I  pray  thee,  take  a  blessing  of  thy 
servant.  But  he  said,  As  the  Lord  liveth,  before  whom  I 
stand,  I  will  receive  none.  And  he  urged  him  to  take  it: 
but  he  refused.  ^  ^  ^  ^  So  he  departed  from  him  a 
little  way. 

But  Gehazi,  the  servant  of  Elisha,  the  man  of  God,  said, 
Behold,  my  master  hath  spared  Naaman  this  Syrian,  in  not 
receiving  at  his  hands  that  which  he  brought  ;  but,  as  the 
Lord  liveth,  I  will  run  after  him,  and  take  somewhat  of  him. 

So  Gehazi  followed  after  Naaman  :  and  when  Naaman 
saw  him  running  after  him,  he  lighted  down  from  the  cha- 
riot to  meet  him,  and  said,  Is  all  well  ?  And  he  said,  All  is 
well.  My  master  hath  sent  me,  saying,  Behold,  even  now 
there  be  come  to  me  from  mount  Ephraim  two  young  men 
of  the  sons  of  the  prophets  :  give  them,  I  pray  thee>  a  talent 
of  silver,  and  two  changes  of  garments. 

And  Naaman  said,  Be  content  ;  take  two  talents.  And  he 
urged  him,  and  bound  two  talents  of  silver  in  two  bags,  with 
two  changes  of  garments,  and  laid  them  upon  two  of  his  ser- 
vants ;  and  they  bare  them  before  him.  And  when  he  came 
to  the  tower,  he  took  them  from  their  hand,  and  bestowed 
them  in  the  house  ;  and  he  let  the  men  go,  and  they  depart- 
ed. But  he  went  in  and  stood  before  his  master. 

And  Elisha  said  unto  himt  Whence  comest  thou,  Gehazi  ? 
And  he  said,  Thy  servant  went  no  whither.  And  he  said 
unto  him,  Went  not  my  heart  with  thee,  when  the  man 
turned  again  from  his  chariot  to  meet  thee  ?  Is  it  a  time  to 
receive  money,  and  to  receive  garments,  and  oliveyards,  ancL  *  c/ 
vineyards,  and  sheep,  and  oxen,  and  men-servants,  and  maid-' 
servants  ?  The  leprosy,  therefore,  of  Naaman  shall  cleave 
unto  thee.  *  ^  *  *  And  he  went  out  from  his  pre- 
sence a  leper  as  white  as  snow. 

%  L  4  1*  \ 


tAt 


LESSON 

Claims  of  the  Jews.  —  NOEL. 

IN  very  truth,  there  are  claims,  which1  the  Jew  can  urge, 
in  which  the  Gentile  cannot  share.     In  advocating  the  cause 
13 


146  NATIONAL  READER. 

of  Israel,  I  would  ask,  and  strongly  too,  Is  the  account  of 
justice  towards  that  nation  settled  ?  Is  the  long  arrear  of 
Gentile  gratitude  to  that  nation  discharged  ?  For  to  what 
blessing  shall  we  refer,  in  the  long  catalogue  of  our  own 
mercies,  which  we  have  not  derived  from  Israel  ? 

Amidst  the  sorrows  and  vicissitudes  of  life,  do  we  find 
daily  consolations  from  God?  Under  the  terrors  of  con- 
science, do  we  behold  a  peaceful  asylum  in  the  Gospel  of 
Christ  ?  By  the  bed  of  dying  worth,  or  at  the  oft-frequented 
grave  of  departed  friendship,  do  we  wipe  away  our  tears  in 
the  prospect  of  a  sure  and  certain  hope  of  a  resurrection  to 
the  life  eternal  ? 

From  whence  do  all  these  consolations  flow  ?  They  flow 
to  us  from  Judah.  The  Volume  of  God  was  penned  by 
Jewish  hands  ;  the  Gospel  was  proclaimed  by  Jewish  lips  ; 
yea,  that  Sacred  Victim  on  the  cross, — the  world's  only 
hope,  the  sinner's  only  joy, — wears  not  even  he  the  lin'ea- 
ments  of  the  children  of  Abraham  ?  And,  without  the  blush 
of  self-abasement,  can  we  speculate  any  longer  on  our  in- 
difference to  the  Jewish  cause,  and  coldly  complain,  that  we 
feel  not  here  that  energy  of  sympathy,  which  we  can  feel  on 
other  appeals  to  our  compassion  ?  ^  * 

Christians  !  at  length  remove  the  stigma  ;  repay  the  debt ; 
redeem  the  time  ;  admit  the  claims  of  justice  ;  yield  to  the 
impulse  of  gratitude  ;  feel,  toil,  supplicate  for  those,  whose 
forefathers  felt,  and  toiled,  and  prayed  for  you ! 

Think,  I  pray  you,  of  all  their  former  grandeur,  and  con- 
trast it  with  their  present  desolation.  Such  a  contrast  raises, 
even  under%  ordinary  circumstances,  a  keen  emotion  in  the 
human  heart.  No  sympathy  is  so  strong  as  that,  which  is 
drawn  forth  by  fallen  greatness.  The  extent  of  the  ruin  is 
the  very  measure  of  that  emotion.  Why  does  the  traveller 
fondly  linger  amidst  the  scenes  of  ancient  art,  or  power,  or 
influence  ?  Why,  for  so  many  a  year,  has  the  poet  and  the 
philosopher  wandered  amidst  the  fragments  of  Athens  or  of 
Rome  ?  why  paused,  with  strange  and  kindling  feelings, 
amidst  their  broken  columns,  their  mouldering  temples,  their 
deserted  plains  ?  It  is  because  their  day  of  glory  is  passed ; 
it  is  because  their  name  is  obscured,  their  power  is  departed, 
their  influence  is  lost !  The  gloomy  contrast  casts  a  shade 
over  the  renown  and  the  destiny  of  man. 

Similar  emotions  have,  indeed,  been  often  felt  amidst  the 
scenes  of  Jewish  fame.  The  forsaken  banks  of  Jordan, 
where  the  Psalmist  once  might  tune  his  lyre,  and  utter  his 


NATIONAL  READER.  147 

prophetic  songs ;  the  blighted  plains  of  Galilee,  where  the 
Saviour  might  often  bend  his  lonely  steps  to  cheer  the  wi- 
dow's dwelling ;  the  ruined  city,  once  the  terror  of  surround- 
ing nations  ;  the  forgotten  temple,  whose  walls  once  echoed 
back  the  accents  of  that  voice,  "  which  spake  as  never  man 
spake  ;" — these  images  and  memorials  of  former  days  have 
often  produced  a  solemn  sadness  in  the  minds  of  those,  who 
have  visited  the  shores  of  Palestine  ;  and  these  feelings  have 
responded  to  the  affecting  complaint,  "  Thy  holy  cities  are 
a  wilderness,  Zion  is  a  wilderness,  Jerusalem  is  a  desola- 
tion. Our  holy  and  our  beautiful  house,  where  our  fathers 
praised  thee,  is  burned  up  with  fire,  and  all  our  pleasant 
things  are  laid  waste. " 

But  is  there  no  emphasis  of  sadness  to  be  found  in  the 
sordid  and  degraded  state  of  those,  who  wander  through  the 
world  forgotten  and  forlorn,  though  once  the  honoured  ser- 
vants, the  favoured  children,  of  the  Lord  ? 

Shall  the  sculptured  stone,  the  broken  shaft,  the  time- 
worn  capital,  even  the  poor  fragments  of  some  profane 
sanctuary — shall  these  affect  so  deeply  the  heart  ?  and  shall 
the  moral  ruin,  the  spiritual  decay,  the  symptoms  of  eternal 
perdition — shall  these  vestiges  of  desolation  excite  no  feel- 
ing in  our  bosoms?  And  where  is  a  ruin  to  be  found  so 
mournful,  and  so  complete,  as  that  which  the  moral  aspect 
of  Judah  now  presents  to  our  view  ? 


LESSON  LXXX. 

The  Influence  of  Devotional  Habits  and  Feelings^  happy  at 
all  Times. — WELLBELOVED. 

IN  every  age,  and  in  every  condition  of  life,  the  influence 
of  devotion  is  highly  needful  and  important.  The  adoration 
of  the  great  Source  of  all  enjoyment,  by  whose  providence 
all  exist,  and  from  whose  goodness  all  derive  the  comfort  of 
their  existence,  is  an  employment  worthy  of  the  human 
faculties,  reasonable  in  itself,  and  productive  of  the  most 
excellent  dispositions. 

In  the  day  of  prosperity,  what  more  natural  or  becoming, 
than  the  language  of  praise  at  the  throne  of  God  ?  in  the 
hour  of  adversity,  what  more  suitable  or  consoling,  than  the 
expression  of  confidence  in  the  divine  government,  and  the 


148  NATIONAL  READER. 

wish  that  devotion  breathes,  "  Father,  not  my  will,  but  thine, 
be  done  ?"  in  the  whole  conduct  of  life,  in  all  the  events  of 
this  ever-varying  scene,  what  more  likely  to  keep  the  mind 
in  a  calm  and  tranquil  state,  or  to  render  the  present  moral 
discipline  efficacious  in  preparing  us  for  future  eminence  and 

flory,  than  the  habit  of  devout  intercourse  with  the  great 
ather  of  our  spirits  ? 

A  practice  so  excellent  in  maturer  life,  is  recommended 
to  youth  by  reasons  peculiarly  forcible.  Piety,  a  crown  of 
glory  to  the  hoary  head,  is  an  ornament  of  peculiar  beauty 
upon  that  which  has  not  seen  many  years.  It  is  the  lan- 
guage of  the  most  absurd  and  fatal  folly,  that  religion  and 
its  duties  are  not  suited  to  the  innocent  gayety  of  youth ; 
that  devotion  belongs  to  those  only,  who  have  passed  that 
period;  and  that  it  will  be  sufficient  to  think  of  prepar- 
ing for  a  future  state,  when  we  begin  to  lose  our  relish  for 
the  present. 

Such  sentiments  as  these  are  not,  I  hope,  adopted  by  any 
of  those  young  persons,  to  whom  I  address  myself.  The 
reverse  are  such  as  they  ought  to  maintain ;  such  as,  alone, 
are  worthy  of  a  rational  mind.  Is  it  reasonable,  my  young 
friends,  that,  living  as  you  do  upon  the  bounty  of  Provi- 
dence, you  should  feel  no  gratitude,  nor  express  any  thank* 
fulness  for  its  bounties  ?  that,  dependant  as  you  are  upon  God 
for  life,  and  health,  and  all  things,  you  should  live  without 
any  regard  for  your  unceasing  Benefactor,  and  think  your^ 
selves  improperly  employed  when  celebrating  his  praise  ? 

Are  the  blessings  you  receive  undeserving  of  your  thanks  ? 
Are  you  insensible  of  the  value  of  kind  relations,  judicious 
friends,  and  wise  instructers ;  of  bodily  strength  and  activity ; 
of  cheerfulness  of  mind ;  of  all  the  numberless  means,  by 
which  life  is  not  only  supported,  but  rendered  happy  ?  Is 
it  possible  that  you  should  not  see  and  feel  the  ingratitude 
of  employing  your  best  days,  and  your  most  vigorous  pow- 
ers, without  one  thought  of  God ;  and  of  contenting  your- 
selves with  the  resolution  of  devoting  to  his  service  the  im- 
becility of  old  age  ? 

With  so  many  monuments  of  death  around  you;  with  so 
many  awful  warnings  of  the  uncertainty  of  life,  even  at 
your  period  of  it ;  is  it  not  the  height  of  presumption  and 
folly,  to  defer  the  formation  of  a  religious  and  devotional 
temper  to  a  period,  which,  it  is  probable,  or  at  least  possible, 


may  never  arrive 


a 


Have  you  seen  so  little  of  life,  as  not  to  know,  that  the 


NATIONAL  READER.  149 

feeling  and  conduct  of  maturer  years,  and  of  old  age,  are  al- 
most invariably  marked  by  the  character  which  distinguished 
the  youth;  that  the  man,  who  neglected  God  and  religious 
duties  when  young,  becomes  more  averse  from  them  as  he 
advances  in  life,  and  leaves  the  world  with  the  same  irreli- 
gious temper  with  which  he  entered  upon  it ;  unimproved 
by  the  events  that  have  happened  to  him,  bearing  no  simili- 
tude to  God,  without  the  favour  of  his  friendship,  and  unpre- 
pared for  the  joys  of  his  presence  ?  Or,  is  this  the  envied 
character  you  desire  to  form  ?  is  this  the  happy  end  to  which 
you  aspire  ?  is  such  the  life  you  wish  to  lead  ?  or  such  the 
death  you  hope  to  die  ? 

My  young  friends,  let  not  any  evil  suggestions  enslave 
you,  and  prevent  you  from  pursuing  that  conduct,  which  rea- 
son and  Scripture  pronounce  to  be  honourable  and  safe.  If 
it  be  an  awful  thing  to  die  without  hope  of  future  happiness, 
it  is  an  awful  thing  to  live  every  moment  liable  to  death, 
without  those  dispositions,  which,  by  the  wise  appointment 
of  Almighty  God,  are  necessary  to  obtain  the  blessedness  of 
the  world  to  come. 


LESSON  LXXXL 

The  Seasons. — MRS.  BARBAULD. 

WHO  may  she  be,  this  beauteous,  smiling  maid, 
In  light-green  robe  with  careless  ease  arrayed  ? 
Her  head  is  with  a  flowery  garland  crowned, 
And  where  she  treads,  fresh  flowerets  spring  around. 
Her  genial  breath  dissolves  the  gathered  snow ; 
Loosed  from,  their  icy  chains  the  rivers  flow ; 
At  sight  of  her  the  lambkins  bound  along, 
And  each  glad  warbler  trills  his  sweetest  song ; 
Their  mates  they  choose,  their  breasts  with  love  are  filled, 
And  all  prepare  their  mossy  nests  to  build. 
Ye  youths  and  maidens,  if  ye  know,  declare 
The  name  and  lineage  of  this  smiling  fair. 

Who  from  the  south  is  this,  with  lingering  tread 
Advancing,  in  transparent  garments  clad  ? 
Her  breath  is  hot  and  sultry :  now  she  loves 
To  seek  the  inmost  shelter  of  the  groves  ; 
The  crystal  brooks  she  seeks,  and  limpid  streams, 
To  quench  the  heat  that  preys  upon  her  limbs. 
13* 


150  NATIONAL  READER. 

From  her  the  brooks  and  wandering  rivulets  fly ; 
At  her  approach  their  currents  quickly  dry. 
Berries  and  every  acid  fruit  she  sips, 
To  allay  the  fervour  of  her  parching  lips  ; 
Apples  and  melons,  and  the  cherry's  juice, 
She  loves,  which  orchards  plenteously  produce. 
The  sunburnt  hay-makers,  the  swain  who  shears 
The  flocks,  still  hail  the  maid  when  she  appears. 
At  her  approach,  O  be  it  mine  to  lie 
"Where  spreading  beeches  cooling  shades  supply ; 
Or  with  her  let  me  rove  at  early  morn, 
When  drops  of  pearly  dew  the  grass  adorn ; 
Or,  at  soft  twilight,  when  the  flocks  repose, 
And  the  bright  star  of  evening  mildly  glows. 
Ye  youths  and  maidens,  if  ye  know,  declare 
The  name  and  lineage  of  this  blooming  fair. 

WTio  may  he  be  that  next,  with  sober  pace, 
Comes  stealing  on  us  ?     Sallow  is  his  face ; 
The  grape's  red  blood  distains  his  robes  around  ; 
His  temples  with  a  wheaten  sheaf  are  bound ; 
His  hair  hath  just  begun  to  fall  away, 
The  auburn  blending  with  the  mournful  gray. 
The  ripe  brown  nuts  he  scatters  to  the  swain ; 
He  winds  the  horn,  and  calls  the  hunter  train : 
The  gun  is  heard ;  the  trembling  partridge  bleeds ; 
The  beauteous  pheasant  to  his  fate  succeeds. 
Who  is  he  with  the  wheaten  sheaf?     Declare, 
Jf  ye  can  tell,  ye  youths  and  maidens  fair. 

Who  is  he  from  the  north  that  speeds  his  way  ? 
Thick  furs  and  wool  compose  his  warm  array : 
His  cloak  is  closely  folded ;  bald  his  head ; 
His  beard  of  clear  sharp  icicles  is  made. 
By  blazing  fire  he  loves  to  stretch  his  limbs  ; 
With  skait-bound  feet  the  frozen  lakes  he  skims. 
When  he  is  by,  with  breath  so  piercing  cold, 
No  floweret  dares  its  tender  buds  unfold. 
Nought  can.  his  powerful  freezing  touch  withstand ; 
And,  should  he  smite  you  with  his  chilling  hand, 
Your  stiffened  form  would  on  his  snows  be  cast, 
Or  stand,  like  marble,  pale  and  breathless  as  he  passed 
Ye  youths  and  maidens,  does  he  yet  appear  ? 
Fast  he  approaches,  and  will  soon  be  here. 
Declare,  I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  ye  can, 
The  name  and  lineage  of  this  aged  man. 


NATIONAL  READER.  151 

LESSON  LXXXII. 

March. — BRYANT. 

THE  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies : 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 
That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah !  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild,  stormy  month,  in  praise  of  thee ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou  to  northern  lands  again, 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train, 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in.  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 

Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 
But,  in  thy  sternest  frown,  abides 

A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 

And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 
When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 

Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


152  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  LXXXIII. 

April. — LONGFELLOW. 

WHEN  the  warm  sun,  that  brings 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  has  returned  again, 
'Tis  sweet  to  visit  the  still  wood,  where  springs 

The  first  flower  of  the  plain. 

I  love  the  season  well, 

When  forest  glades  are  teeming  with  bright  forms, 
Nor  dark  and  many-folded  clouds  foretell 

The  coming-in  of  storms. 

From  the  earth's  loosened  mould 
The  sapling  draws  its  sustenance,  and  thrives : 
Though  stricken  to  the  heart  with  winter's  cold, 

The  drooping  tree  revives. 

The  softly-warbled  song 

Comes  through  the  pleasant  woods,  and  coloured  wings 
Are  glancing  in  the  golden  sun,  along 

The  forest  openings. 

And  when  bright  sunset  fills 

The  silver  woods  with  light,  the  green  slope  throws 
Its  shadows  in  the  hollows  of  the  hills. 

And  wide  the  upland  glows. 

And  when  the  day  is  gone, 
In  the  blue  lake,  the  sky,  o'erreaching  far, 
Is  hollowed  out,  and  the  moon  dips  her  horn, 

And  twinkles  many  a  star. 

Inverted  in  the  tide 

Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 
And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 

And  see  themselves  below. 

Sweet  April,  many  a  thought 
Is  wedded  unto  thee,  as  hearts  are  wed ; 
Nor  shall  they  fail,  till,  to  its  autumn  brought, 

Life's  golden  fruit  is  shed. 


NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  LXXXIV. 
May. — J.  G.  PERCIVAL. 

I  FEEL  a  newer  life  in  every  gale  ; 

The  winds,  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  wHh  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there  ; 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And,  from  its  darkening  shadow,  floats 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west- wind  play  ; 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 


LESSON  LXXXV. 

The  Voice  of  Spring. — MRS.  HEM'ANS, 

I  COME,  I  come  ! — ye  have  called  me  long, — 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  song ! 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  the  violet's  birth, 


154  NATIONAL  READER. 

By  the  primrose-stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  I  pass. 

I  have  breathed  on  the  South,  and  the  chesnut-flowers, 
By  thousands,  have  burst  from  the  forest-boAvers, 
And  the  ancient  graves,  and  the  fallen  fanes, 
Are  veiled  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains. 
— But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  bloom, 
To  speak  of  the  ruin  or  the  tomb ! 

I  have  passed  o'er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  North, 

And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth, 

The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 

And  the  rein-deer  bounds  through  the  pasture  free, 

And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 

And  the  moss  looks  bright  where  my  step  has  been. 

I  have  sent  through  the  wood-paths  a  gentle  sigh, 
And  called  out  each  voice  of  the  deep  blue  sky, 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-bough  into  verdure  breaks. 

From  the  streams  and  founts  I  have  loosed  the  chain ; 
They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  main, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain-brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  on  the  forest  boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves. 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness,  come  ! 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose-cheek  and  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  bounding  footstep,  to  meet  me  fly, 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous  lay : 
Come  forth  to  the  sunshine  :  I  may  not  stay  ! 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men, 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  wood  and  glen ; 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  dusky  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth ; 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 


NATIONAL  READER.  155 

But  ye ! — ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ; 
A  shade  of  earth  has  been  round  you  cast ! 
There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye 
Which  speaks  of  a  world  where  the  flowers  must  die  ! 
Ye  smile  ! — but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet — 
— Oh !  what  have  ye  looked  on  since  last  we  met  ? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed ! — and  I  see  not  here 
All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanished  year ! 
There  were  graceful  heads,  with  their  ringlets  bright, 
Which  tossed  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light ; 
There  were  eyes,  in  whose  glistening  laughter  lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay. 

There  were  steps,  that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's  head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  were  spread ; 

There  were  voices  that  rung  through  the  sapphire  sky, 

And  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality ! 

—Are  they  gone  ? — is  their  mirth  from  the  green  hills  passed  ? 

— Ye  have  looked  on  Death  since  ye  met  me  last ! 

I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  ye  now  : 
Ye  have  strown  the  dust  on  the  sunny  brow  ! 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  Earth's  embrace ; 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  Beauty's  race  ! 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  festal  crown, 
They  are  gone  from  amongst  you  in  silence  down  ! 

They  are  gone  from  amongst  you,  the  bright  and  fair ; 
Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair  ! 
— But  I  know  of  a  world  where  there  falls  no  blight : 
I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! — 
Where  Death,  'midst  the  blooms  of  the  morn,  may  dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer  : — farewell,  farewell ! 

The  summer  is  hastening,  on  soft  winds  borne : 

Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn ! 

For  me,  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore : 

Ye  are  marked  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 

I  go  where  the  loved,  who  have  left  you,  dwell, 

And  the  flowers  are  not  Death's  : — fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 


156  NATIONAL  READEIt. 


LESSON  LXXXVI. 

Folly  of  deferring,  to  a  Future  Time,  the  Religious  Duties 
of  the  Present. — WELLBELOVED. 

THERE  are  few  young  persons  so  careless  and  indifferent, 
as  not  occasionally  to  look  forward  to  the  time  when  they 
shall  become  devout.  However  they  may  neglect  God,  and 
disregard  the  duties  of  religion  at  present,  they  hope  to  serve 
and  obey  God,  and  to  live  virtuously,  before  they  die. 

Alas !  they  reflect  not,  that,  by  a  continuance  in  evil 
practices,  they  render  it  almost  impossible  that  they  should 
attain  to  any  love  of  virtue;  that,  by  forming  habits  incon- 
sistent with  piety,  in  the  early  period  of  their  lives,  they 
expose  themselves  to  the  almost  certain  hazard  of  never 
acquiring  one  pious  sentiment,  how  protracted  soever  their 
existence  in  the  present  world. 

Be  careful.  I  entreat  you,  my  young  friends,  not  to  indulge 
such  fallacious  hopes.  To  whatever  you  now  devote  your- 
selves, to  that  you  will,  most  probably,  continue  to  adhere  to 
the  last  hour.  Your  future  pursuits  may  be  in  some  respects 
altered,  but  they  will  never  be  totally  changed.  A  vicious 
youth  almost  invariably  becomes  a  vicious  man ;  and  they 
whose  declining  years  are  dignified  by  virtue  and  piety, 
are,  for  the  most  part,  those  who  sought  wisdom  early  and 
found  her. 

We  are  the  creatures  of  habit  ;  and,  if  we  wish  to  be 
found,  in  old  age,  proceeding  in  the  paths  of  wisdom  and 
virtue,  we  must  yield  ourseives  to  the  counsels  of  religion 
in  the  days  of  our  youth.  It  is  both  the  safest  and  the 
easiest  way  to  form  no  habits  which  you  propose  hereafter 
to  break ;  to  cherish  no  dispositions  which  you  hope,  when 
time  has  confirmed  them,  to  relinquish ;  to  gain  a  fondness 
for  no  practices  which  you  know  will,  if  not  abandoned,  dis- 
qualify you  for  the  happiness  of  a  future  state. 

If  you  cannot  resolve  to  be  pious  now,  how  can  you  hope 
for  the  resolution  hereafter?  If  passion  exerts  so  strong  an 
influence  at  present,  how  can  you  expect  that  long  indul- 
gence will  lessen  its  power  ?  If  you  neglect  to  form  habits 
of  virtue,  when  every  thing  invites  and  assists  you  in  this 
important  work,  how  can  you  trust  to  that  period,  when,  to 
the  labour  and  difficulty  of  acquiring  new  principles,  will 
be  added  that  of  undoing  all  that  the  former  years  of  your 
lives  have  effected  ? 


NATIONAL  READER.  157 

A  moment's  reflection  will  show  you,  that  the  attainment 
of  pious  affections  in  old  age,  after  a  long  pursuit  of  folly, 
must  require  nothing  less  than  an  entire  change  of  disposi- 
tions and  of  conduct,  a  complete  regeneration  of  the  mind 
and  character.  Old  things  must  pass  away,  and  all  things 
become  new.  From  reflecting,  turn  yourselves  to  the  ex- 
perience of  mankind,  and  observe  how  few  are  capable  of 
the  exertion  so  necessary  in  this  momentous  concern. 

"Remember,  then,  your  Creator,  in  the  days  of  your  youth, 
while  the  evil  days  come  not,  nor  the  years  draw  nigh,  in 
which,"  disturbed  by  reflections  upon  the  past,  oppressed  by 
the  consciousness  of  your  inability  to  relinquish  what  you 
disapprove,  and  alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  futurity,  "  ye  shall 
say,  We  have  no  pleasure  in  them." 

It  is  an  error,  too  commonly  prevalent,  that  the  duties  of 
piety  are  inconsistent  with  the  enjoyment  of  youth,  and  that 
they  tend  to  damp,  if  not  extinguish,  the  vivacity  which 
adorns  that  season  of  life.  You  will  perhaps  be  told,  that 
devotion  is  not  required  in  you ;  that  it  will  serve  only  to 
render  you  gloomy,  disqualify  you  for  the  society  of  those 
who  are  young  like  yourselves,  and  render  you  a  fit  com- 
panion for  those  only,  who  have  forgotten  the  days  of  former 
years,  and  have  arrived  at  the  verge  of  the  grave. 

Be  not  influenced  by  such  assertions ;  make  the  experiment 
for  yourselves;  and,  if  you  do  not  find  that  the  ways  of  piety 
are  the  only  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  her  paths  the  only 
paths  of  peace,  I  ask  you  riot  to  walk  in  them :  if  the  service 
of  God  do  hot  yield  you  the  only  rational  and  pure  pleasure, 
I  will  cease  from  advising  you  to  avoid  the  debasing  slavery 
of  sin. 

That  devotion  will  interfere  with  the  pursuits  which  young 
persons  sometimes  follow,  and  prohibit  the  pleasures  in 
which  they  are  too  frequently  seen  to  indulge,  I  will  not  deny. 
Yes,  my  young  friends,  if  you  will  be  virtuous  and  devout, 
you  must  refrain  from  all  those  pleasures  which  end  in  pain; 
you  must  abandon  all  those  pursuits  which  lead  to  disgrace 
and  ruin;  you  must  apply  to  other  sources  of  gratification 
than  those,  which,  however  sweet  to  the  taste,  contain  a 
deadly  poison;  you  must  fly  the  society  of  those  "whose 
feet  go  down  to  death,  whose  steps  take  hold  on  hell;"  and 
often  send  your  thoughts  to  that  land  of  promise,  where  all 
the  wise  and  virtuous  shall  enjoy  inconceivable  and  uninter- 
fupted  happiness. 

Are  these  requisitions  unreasonable  ?  are  these  injunc- 
14 


158  NATIONAL  READER. 

lions  oppressive  ?  will  these  destroy  your  innocent  gayety,  or 
render  you  gloomy  and  austere  ?  The  most  thoughtless  and 
inexperienced  will  acknowledge,  that  no  joys  but  such  as 
are  innocent  can  be  pure  and  lasting ;  and  piety  requires  of 
you  no  more,  than  that  you  indulge  not  in  those  that  are 
impure  and  deceitful. 

The  peculiar  enjoyment  of  youth  arises  from  innocence, 
inexperience  in  the  vicissitudes  and  trials  of  life,  and  ardent 
hope.  Devotion,  therefore,  will  increase  your  enjoyment,  in- 
stead of  lessening  it,  by  rendering  you  secure  against  temp- 
tations, assuring  you  of  the  favour  and  friendship  of  God, 
encouraging  you  to  contemplate,  with  satisfaction  and  with 
pleasure,  whatever  his  providence  shall  reserve  for  you  in 
future ;  and,  above  all,  by  giving  a  wider  scope  for  your  ex- 
pectations to  range  in, — by  opening  before  you  the  eternal 
abodes  of  the  wise  and  the  good. 


LESSON  LXXXVII. 

Religion  the  lest  Preparation  for  the  Duties  of  Life. — NORTON. 

THE  interest  which  we  feel  in  the  young  should  direct  our 
attention  to  all  those  means,  by  which  their  virtue  and  hap- 
piness may  be  secured,  and  by  which  they  may  be  saved,  as 
far  as  possible,  from  the  evils  that  are  in  the  world.  The 
worst  sufferings,  to  which  they  are  exposed,  are  those  which 
may  be  avoided ;  for  they  are  those  which  we  bring  upon 
ourselves. 

The  best  preparation,  which  we  can  give  them,  for  meet* 
ing  the  trials,  and  performing  the  duties,  of  life,  is  religious 
principle.  Through  the  influence  of  this  only  can  a  charac- 
ter be  formed,  which  will  lead  one  to  act,  and  suffer,  and  re- 
sist, wisely  and  honourably,  in  every  situation.  This  only 
can  deliver  man  from  the  power  of  the  world,  and  secure  him 
from  becoming  the  slave  of  circumstances  and  accidents. 

The  essential  truths  of  religion  are  those  truths,  which 
we  know  concerning  God ;  and  concerning  ourselves,  con- 
sidered as  immortal  beings.  It  is  religion  which  teaches 
us  what  we  are,  and  on  whom  we  depend  ;  and  which, 
widening  immeasurably  our  sphere  of  view,  discovers  to  us 
by  far  the  most  important  of  our  relations, — those  which 
connect  us  with  God,  and  with  eternity.  It  is  little  to  say 


NATIONAL  READER.  1-59 

that  it  is  the  most  sublime,  it  is  the  most  practical,  of  all 
sciences.  ^  *  ^  ^ 

The  foundation  of  all  true  religion  is  a  belief  of  the  ex- 
istence and  perfections  of  God.  We  must  conceive  of  him, 
and  represent  him  to  the  young,  as  the  Maker  and  Preserver 
of  all  things ;  as  a  being  on  whom  the  whole  creation  is 
entirely  and  continually  dependent ;  who  is  every  where 
invisibly  present,  and  knows  all  our  thoughts  and  actions ; 
from  whom  we  receive  all  that  we  enjoy ;  to  whom  we  must 
look  for  all  that  we  hope ;  who  is  our  constant  Benefactor, 
our  Father  in  Heaven. 

The  feelings  toward  him,  which  should  be  first  formed 
and  cultivated  in  the  minds  of  the  young,  are  those  of  grati- 
tude, love,  and  reverence.  In  endeavouring  to  impress  them 
with  these  sentiments  toward  God,  we  ought  to  take  advan- 
tage of  those  occasions  when  they  are  most  cheerful  and 
satisfied  with  themselves.  It  is  then  that  his  idea  is  to  be 
presented  to  their  minds.  Should  they  be  touched  by  the 
beauty  or  sublimity  of  nature,  we  may  then  endeavour  to 
give  them  some  just  conceptions  of  that  infinite  Spirit, 
whose  agency  is  displaying  itself  on  every  side,  and  of 
whose  presence  all  visible  forms  are  the  marks  and  symbols. 

When  we  teach  them  something  respecting  the  immensity 
of  the  universe ;  that  the  portion  of  this  earth  with  which 
they  are  acquainted,  is  only  a  very  small  part  of  an  immense 
globe,  forever  wheeling  through  void  space ;  that  this  globe 
is  but  an  inconsiderable  thing,  compared  w^ith  others  that 
are  known  to  us ;  that  the  stars  of  heaven  are  a  multitude 
of  suns,  which  cannot  be  numbered,  placed  at  distances 
from  each  other,  which  cannot  be  measured ;  we  may  then 
direct  their  thoughts  to  that  Power,  by  whom  this  illirnitabla 
universe  was  created,  and  is  kept  in  motion,  and  who  super- 
intends all  the  concerns  of  every  individual  in  every  one  of 
these  myriads  of  worlds. 

When  we  point  out  to  them  any  of  the  admirable  contri- 
vances of  nature,  which  appear  around  us  in  such  inex- 
haustible profusion  and  variety,  so  that  we  tread  them  with- 
out thought  under  our  feet ;  when  we  explain  to  them,  that 
each  of  the  countless  insects  of  a  summer's  day  is  a  miracle 
of  curious  mechanism ;  we  can  hardly  avoid  telling  them 
by  whose  wisdom  these  contrivances  were  formed,  and  by 
whose  goodness  their  benevolent  purposes  were  designed. 

When  their  hearts  are  opened  by  gladness,  and  their  feel- 
ings spread  themselves  out  to  find  objects  to  which  to  cling  j 


160  NATIONAL  READER. 

you  may  then,  by  a  word  or  two,  direct  their  thoughts  to 
God  as  their  Benefactor.  When  the  occasion  is  of  impor- 
tance enough  to  give  propriety  to  the  introduction  of  religious 
ideas,  you  may  lead  them  in  their  sorrows  to  the  consolation 
and  hope  which  a  belief  in  him  affords. 

You  may  thus  do  what  is  in  your  power  to  enthrone  the 
idea  of  God  in  their  minds,  so  that  all  the  thoughts  and 
affections  shall  pay  homage  to  it.  You  may  thus  do  what 
is  in  your  power  toward  forming  that  temper  of  habitual 
devotion,  to  which  God  is  continually  revealing  himself  in 
his  works,  and  in  his  providence.  You  may  thus  give  the 
first  impulse  to  those  feelings  of  love,  reverence,  and  trust, 
which  connect  a  good  man  so  strongly  with  God,  that,  if  it 
were  possible  for  him  to  be  deprived  of  the  belief  of  his  ex- 
istence, it  would  be  with  the  same  feeling  of  horror,  with 
which  he  would  see  the  sun  darkening  and  disappearing 
from  the  heavens. 


LESSON  LXXXVHI. 

The  Young,  of  every  Rank,  entitled  to  Education. — 
GREENWOOD. 

THE  benefits  of  education  should  be  extended  to  all  chil* 
dren,  without  exception.  They  never  have  been  denied  to 
those  who  are  born  to  rarik  and  wealth,  or  even  to  a  compe- 
tency and  mediocrity  of  estate,  except  till  very  lately,  and, 
in  some  respects,  in  the  case  of  the  female  sex.  Bat,  even 
at  this  enlightened  day,  it  is  not  entirely  a  superfluous  task 
to  vindicate  the  claims  of  the  offspring  of  the  poor,  of  the 
poorest,  of  the  vilest,  to  that  mental  cultivation,  which  it  is 
in  the  power  of  every  community  to  bestow. 

That  old  notion  is  not  yet  stowed  away  among  the  forgotten 
rubbish  of  old  times,  that  those,  who  were  born  to  labour  and 
servitude,  were  born  for  nothing  but  labour  and  servitude,  and 
that,  the  less  they  knew,  the  better  they  would  obey,  and 
that  the  only  instruction,  which  was  necessary  or  safe  for 
them,  was  that  which  would  teach  them  to  move,  like  auto* 
matons,  precisely  as  those  above  them  pulled  the  strings. 
I  say,  we  still  hear  this  principle  asserted,  though  perhaps 
in  more  guarded  and  indefinite  language ;  and  a  more  self- 
ish, pernicious,  disgraceful  principle,  in  whatever  terms  it 
maybe  muffled  up,  never  insulted  human  nature,  nor  degraded 


NATIONAL  READER.  101 

human  society,  It  is  the  leading  principle  of  despotism, 
the  worst  feature  of  aristocracy,  and  a  profane  contradiction 
of  that  indubitable  Word,  which  has  pronounced  all  men  to 
be  brethren,  and,  in  every  thing  which  relates  to  their  com- 
mon nature,  equal. 

In  short,  it  is  only  to  the  domestic  animals,  to  the  brutes 
that  God  has  given  for  our  use,  that  this  principle  can  with 
justice  be  applied.  Their  education  is  not  to  be  carried  be- 
yond obedience,  because  their  faculties  will  not  authorize  a 
more  liberal  discipline.  We  are  to  feed  them  well,  and  use 
them  gently,  and  our  duty  toward  them  is  performed.  But, 
to  say  that  this  is  the  extent  of  our  obligations  toward  any 
class  or  description  of  our  fellow  beings,  is  to  advance  the 
monstrous  proposition,  that  their  capacity  is  as  low  as  their 
circumstantial  situation,  and  their  degree  among  those  who 
bear  the  yoke,  and  eat  the  grass  of  the  field. 

But  the  truth  is,  that  the  minds  of  any  one  class  are  as 
improvable  as  the  minds  of  any  other  class  of  men,  and  may 
therefore  be  improved  in  the  same  way,  by  the  same  means, 
and  to  as  good  purposes.  Once  grant  that  all  human  beings 
have  the  same  human  faculties,  and  you  grant,  to  all,  the 
complete  right  of  the  unlimited  cultivation  of  those  facul- 
ties. Nor  is  it  at  all  more  rational  to  suppose,  that  a  judi- 
cious education  of  the  poor,  conducted  to  any  attainable 
extent,  will  be  liable  to  abuse  in  their  hands,  and  lead  them 
to  forget  their  station  and  their  duty,  than  that  it  will  have 
similar  effects  on  those  who  are  nourished  on  the  lap  of 
affluence.  The  experience,  that  has  been  collected  on  this 
point,  only  strengthens  the  deductions  of  analogy,  and  con- 
firms the  important  position,  which  has  hitherto  gained  too 
little  practical  faith  in  the  world,  that,  the  more  a  people 
know,  the  less  exposed  they  are  to  every  description  of 
extravagance.  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Wherever  there  is  an  unimproved  mind,  there  is  an  un- 
known amount  of  lost  usefulness  and  dormant  energy.  If 
this  is  so  through  the  negligence  or  perversity  of  the  indi- 
vidual, with  him  is  the  guilt,  and  with  him  be  the  punish- 
ment ;  but  if  it  is  so  through  the  influence  of  sentiments 
which  are  current  in  society,  the  fearful  responsibility  rests 
with  those  who  avow  and  maintain  them/  •_  I  see  not  why 
the  man  who  would  repress,  and  who  does  repress,  as  far  as 
in  him  lies,  the. moral  and  intellectual  capabilities  of  a  fel- 
low creature,  is  not  as  culpable  as  if  he  abused  and  destroyed 
his  own. 


162  NATIONAL  READER, 

I  have  said,  that  even  the  children  of  the  vilest  and  lowest 
portion  of  the  community  share  in  the  general  right  to  the 
advantages  of  education.  Their  claim  possesses  a  peculiar 
title  to  our  consideration.  Some  have  spoken,  as  if  such 
were  beyond  or  beneath  our  assistance,  and  would  bring 
contamination  from  their  birth-place.  Their  lot  is  in  the 
region  of  irreclaimable  wickedness,  it  is  said ;  and  as  their 
parents  are,  so  are  they  destined  to  become. 

Destined !  and  so  they  are,  if  you  will  not  save  them. 
They  are  destined,  and  forever  chained  down,  to  a  state  of 
moral  loathsomeness,  in  which  degradation  seems  to  be 
swallowed  with  the  food,  and  vice  breathed  in  with  the  air. 
And  shall  they  stay  in  such  a  pit  of  darkness  ?  Is  not  their 
situation  the  strongest  possible  appeal,  which  can  be  made 
to  your  pity,  and  your  generosity,  and  your  sense  of  justice, 
and  your  love  of  good  ?  Does  it  not  call  on  you,  most  loud- 
ly and  imperatively,  to  pluck  these  brands  from  the  burning, 
ere  yet  they  have  been  scorched  too  deeply  and  darkly  by  the 
flame? 

Nothing  is  more  probable,  than  that  such  children  may  be 
preserved  to  virtue  by  a  timely  interference ;  nothing  is 
more  certain,  than  that  they  will  be  lost,  if  they  remain.  I 
know  of  no  case,  which  promises  such  ample  success  and 
reward  to  the  spirited  efforts  of  benevolence,  as  this.  Vice 
may  be  cut  off,  in  a  great  measure,  of  her  natural  increase, 
by  the  adoption  of  her  offspring  into  the  family  of  virtue ; 
and,  though  it  is  true,  that  the  empire  of  guilt  receives  con- 
stant emigrations  and  fresh  accessions  of  strength,  from  all 
the  regions  of  society,  yet  it  is  equally  as  true,  that  they, 
whose  only  crime  it  is  that  they  were  born  within  its  con'- 
fines,  may  be  snatched  away,  and  taught  another  allegiance, 
before  they  have  become  familiar  with  its  language,  its  cus- 
toms, and  its  corruptions,  and  have  vowed  a  dreadful  fidelity 
to  its  laws. 


LESSON  LXXX1X. 

Childhood  and  Manhood — an  Apologue. — CE 
"  Men  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth. 

'TwAS  eight  o'clock,  and  near  the  lire 
My  ruddy  little  bqy  was  seated, 

And  with  the  title  of  a  sire 

My  ears  expected  to  be  greeted : — •• 


NATIONAL  READER.  163 

But  vain  the  thought :  by  sleep  oppressed, 

No  father  there  the  child  descried  \ 
His  head  reclined  upon  his  breast, 

Or,  nodding,  rolled  from  side  to  side. 

"  Let  this  young  rogue  be  sent  to  bed" — 

Nought  further  had  I  time  to  say, 
When  the  poor  urchin  raised  his  head 

To  beg  that  he  might  longer  stay. 
Refused,  towards  rest  his  steps  he  bent 

With  tearful  eye  and  aching  heart ; 
But  claimed  his  playthings  ere  he  went, 

And  took  up  stairs  his  horse  and  cart. 

For  new  delay,  though  oft  denied, 

He  pleaded  ;  wildly  craved  the  boon  : 
Though  past  his  usual  hour,  he  cried 

At  being  sent  away  so  soon. 
If  stern  to  him,  his  grief  I  shared ; 

(Unmoved  who  hears  his  offspring  weep  ?) 
Of  soothing  him  I  half  despaired ; 

But  soon  his  cares  were  lost  in  sleep. 

"Alas!  poor  infant!"  I  exclaimed, 

"  Thy  father  blushes  now  to  scan, 
In  all  which  he  so  lately  blamed, 

The  follies  and  the  fears  of  man. 
The  vain  regret,  the  anguish  brief, 

Which  thou  hast  known,  sent  up  to  bed, 
Portrays  of  man  the  idle  grief, 

When  doomed  to  slumber  with  the  dead." 

And  more  I  thought,  when,  up  the  stairs, 

With  "  longing,  lingering  looks,"  he  crept, 
To  mark  of  man  the  childish  cares, 

His  playthings  carefully  he  kept. 
Thus  mortals,  on  life's  later  stage, 

When  nature  claims  their  forfeit  breath 
Still  grasp  at  wealth  in  pain  and  age, 

And  cling  to  golden  toys  in  death. 

'Tis  morn ;  and  see,  my  smiling  boy 

Awakes  to  hail  returning  light, — 
To  fearless  laughter — boundless  joy, — 

Forgot  the  tears  of  yesternight. 


164  NATIONAL  HEADER. 

Thus  shall  not  man  forget  his  wo  ? 

Survive  of  age  and  death  the  gloom  ? 
Smile  at  the  cares  he  knew  below  ? 

And,  renovated,  burst  the  tomb  ? 

O,  my  Creator  !  when  thy  will 

Shall  stretch  this  frame  on  earth's  cold  bed 
Let  that  blest  hope  sustain  me  still, 

Till  thought,  sense,  memory — all  are  fled. 
And,  grateful  for  what  thou  may'st  give, 

No  tear  shall  dim  my  fading  eye, 
That  'twas  thy  pleasure  I  should  live, 

That  -Us  thy  mandate  bids  me  die. 


LESSON   XC. 

The  Skies. — BRYANT. 

AY,  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That,  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  that  bright  vault  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  gray  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze 
In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 

The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height ; 

Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns  :  with  thee,  on  high, 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat : 

Beyond  thy  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet : 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break ; 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern  : 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles, 
A  song  at  their  return : 


NATIONAL  READER.  165 

The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee 
Bathes  in  deep  joy  the  land  and  sea. 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun,  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise : — 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand 
About  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair  :  a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth—the  proud,  green  earth — has  not, 

With  all  the  hues,  and  forms,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm,  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  heaven's  eternal  year. 

Oh  !  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men. 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us,  then, 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest ! 


LESSON   XCI. 

Address  to  the  Stars. — NEW  MONTHLY  MAGAZINE. 

YE  are  fair,  ye  are  fair  ;  and  your  pensive  rays 
Steal  down  like  the  light  of  parted  days  ; 
But  have  sin  and  sorrow  ne'er  wandered  o'er 
The  green  abodes  of  each  sunny  shore  ? 
Hath  no  frost  been  there,  and  no  withering  blast, 
Cold,  cold,  o'er  the  flower  and  the  forest,  passed  ? 


166  NATIONAL  READER. 

Does  the  playful  leaf  never  fall  nor  fade  ? 

The  rose  ne'er  droop  in  the  silent  shade  ? 

Say,  comes  there  no  cloud  on  your  morning  beam  ? 

On  your  night  of  beauty  no  troubled  dream  ? 

Have  ye  no  tear  the  eye  to  annoy  ? 

No  grief  to  shadow  its  light  of  joy  ? 

No  bleeding  breasts,  that  are  doomed  to  part  ? 

No  blighted  bower,  and  no  broken  heart  ? 

Hath  death  ne'er  saddened  your  scenes  of  bloom  ? 

Have  your  suns  ne'er  shone  on  the  silent  tomb  ? 

Did  their  sportive  radiance  never  fall 

On  the  cypress  tree  or  the  ruined  wall  ? — 

'Twere  vain  to  guess ;  for  no  eye  hath  seen 

O'er  the  gulf  eternally  fixed  between. 

We  hear  not  the  song  of  your  early  hours  ; 

We  hear  not  the  hymn  of  your  evening  bowers. 

The  strains  that  gladden  each  radiant  sphere 

Nq'er  poured  their  sweets  on  a  mortal  ear ; 

Though  such  I  could  deem,  on  the  evening's  sigh, 

The  air-harp's  unearthly  melody  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  I  go  to  my  rest ; 
For  the  shades  are  passing  into  the  west, 
And  the  beacon  pales  on  its  lonely  height. 
Isles  of  the  blessed,  good-night,  good-night ! 


LESSON  XCII. 

So?ig  of  the  Stars. — BRYANT. 

WHEN  the  radiant  mom  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty  breath 
And  orbs  of  beauty,  and  spheres  of  flame, 
From  the  void  abyss,  by  myriads  came, 
In  the  joy  of  youth,  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung ; 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung  : — 

"  Away,  away  !  through  the  wide,  wide  sky,—- 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 


NATIONAL  READER.  16 

Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  us  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole, 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of  white. 
And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 

*  For  the  Source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space  ; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides. 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play  : 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path  away  ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly  pass  ! 
How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass  ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young  woods  lean. 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  the  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets,  and  shed  their  dews  ; 
And,  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone,  the  night  goes  round  ! 

"  Away,  away  ! — in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air,  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  love  is  brooding,  and  life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice,  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 

"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres, 
To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years. 
Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent 
To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmament, — 
The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 
To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  our  lamps  are  dim." 


168  NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON  XCIII. 

The  Bells  of  St.   Mary's,   Limerick. — LONDON   LITERARY 
GAZETTE. 

"  Those  evening  bells—those  evening1  bells !" 

Moore's  National  Melodies. 

THERE  is  a  delight,  which  those  only  can  appreciate  who 
have  felt  it,  in  recalling  to  one's  mind,  when  cast  by  fortune 
upon  a  strange  soil  and  among  strangers,  the  sights  and 
sounds  which  were  familiar  to  one's  infant  days.  It  is  plea- 
sant, too,  though,  perhaps,  like  the  praise  of  one's  own  friend, 
rather  obtrusive,  to  snatch  those  memories  from  their  rest, 
and  give  them  to  other  ears, — to  tinge  them  with  an  inte- 
rest, and  bid  them  live  again.  When  we  perceive,  likewise, 
that  places  and  circumstances  of  real  beauty  and  curiosity 
remain  neglected  and  unknown,  for  want  of  "  some  tongue 
to  give  their  worthiness  a  voice,"  there  is  a  gratification 
to  our  human  pride  in  the  effort  to  procure  them,  even  for  a 
space, 

A  forted  residence  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time 

And  razure  of  oblivion. 

I  shall  not,  in  this  letter,  as  in  my  last,  give  any  thing 
characteristic — any  thing  Irish.  I  will  be  dull  rather  than 
descend  from  the  elevation  I  intend  to  keep ;  but,  in  com- 
pensation, I  will  tell  you  a  fine  old  story  ;  and,  if  you  have 
but  the  slightest  mingling  of  poetical  feeling  in  your  com- 
position, (and  who  is  there  now-a-days  that  will  not  pretend 
to  some  ?)  I  promise  myself  that  you  shall  not  be  disap- 
pointed. 

The  city  of  Limerick,  though  surrounded  by  some  very 
tolerable  demesnes,^  is  sadly  deficient  in  one  respect, — 
not  an  unimportant  one  in  any  large  town; — there  is  no 
public  walk  of  any  consequence  immediately  adjoining  it. 
The  canal  which  leads  to  Dublin  is  bleak,  from  its  want  of 
trees ;  and  unhealthy,  from  the  low  marshy  champaign,! 
which  lies  on  either  side  its  banks.  ^  ^  *  ^ 

But,  at  the  head  of  this  canal,  where  it  divides  itself  into4 
two  branches,  which,  gradually  widening  arid  throwing  off 
their  artificial  appearance,  form  a  glittering  circlet  around  a 
small  island,  which  is  covered  with  water  shrubs — on  thi$ 
spot  I  have  delightedly  reposed  in  many  a  sweet 
*  Pron.  domains'.  t  Pron.  sham'pane. 


NATIONAL  READER.  169 

when  I  loved  to  seek  a  glimpse  of  inspiration  in  such  scenes, 
to  imitate  Moore's  poetry,  and  throw  rhymes  together,  about 
the  rills  and  hills,  streams  and  beams,  and  even  and  heaven, 
and  fancy  I  was  a  genius  ! — "  'Tis  gone — 'tis  gone — 'tis 
gone  !"  as  old  Capulet  says. 

But  let  us  recall  it  for  a  moment.  Have  the  com'plaisance 
to  indulge  me  in  a  day-dream,  and  fancy,  if  you  can,  that 
you  sit  beside  me  on  the  bank.  We  are  beyond  the  hearing 
of  the  turmoil  and  bustle  of  the  town ;  "  the  city's  voice 
itself  is  soft,  like  solitude's ;"  and  there  is  a  hush  around 
us  that  is  delightful — the  beautiful  repose  of  the  evening. 
The  sun,  that,  but  a  few  minutes  since,  rushed  down  the  west 
with  the  speed  of  a  wandering  star,  pauses,  ere  he  shall  set, 
upon  the  very  verge  of  the  horizon,  and  smiles  upon  his  own 
handiwork — the  creation  of  his  fostering  fervour. 

Hark !  one  sound  alone  reaches  us  here  ;  and  how  grand, 
and  solemn,  and  harmonious,  in  its  monotony !  These  are 
the  great  bells  of  St.  Mary's.  Their  deep-toned  vibrations 
undulate  so  as  to  produce  a  sensible  effect  on  the  air  around 
us.  The  peculiar  fineness  of  the  sound  has  been  often  re- 
marked ;  but  there  is  an  old  story  connected  with  their  his- 
tory, which,  whenever  I  hear  them  ring  out  over  the  silent 
city,  gives  a  something  more  than  harmony  to  the  peal.  I 
shall  merely  say,  that  what  I  am  about  to  relate  is  told  as  a 
real  occurrence  ;  and  I  consider  it  so  touchingly  poetical  in 
itself,  that  I  shall  not  dare  to  supply  a  fictitious  name,  and 
fictitious  circumstances,  where  I  have  been  unable  to  procure 
the  actual  ones. 

They  were  originally  brought  from  Italy ;  they  had  been 
manufactured  by  a  young  native  (whose  name  the  tradition 
has  not  preserved,)  and  finished  after  the  toil  of  many  years ; 
and  he  prided  himself  upon  his  work.  They  were  conse- 
quently purchased  by  the  prior  of  a  neighbouring  convent ; 
and,  with  the  profits  of  this  sale,  the  young  Italian  procured 
a  little  villa,  where  he  had  the  pleasure  of  hearing  the  tolling 
of  his  bells  from  the  convent  cliff,  and  of  growing  old  in  the 
bosom  of  domestic  happiness. 

This,  however,  was  not  to  continue.  In  some  of  those 
broils,  whether  civil  or  foreign,  which  are  the  undying  worm 
in  the  peace  of  a  fallen  land,  the  good  Italian  was  a  sufferer 
amongst  many.  He  lost  his  all ;  and,  after  the  passing  of 
the  storm,  found  himself  preserved  alone  amid  the  wreck 
of  fortune,  friends,  family,  and  home.  The  convent,  in 
which  the  bells,  the  master-pieces  of  his  skill,  were  hung, 


170  NATIONAL  READER. 

was  razed  to  the  earth,  and  these  last  carried  away  into 
another  land. 

The  unfortunate  owner,  haunted  by  his  memories,  and 
deserted  by  his  hopes,  became  a  wanderer  over  Europe. 
His  hair  grew  gray,  arid  his  heart  withered,  before  he  again 
found  a  home  or  a  friend.  In  this  desolation  of  spirit,  he 
formed  a  resolution  of  seeking  the  place,  to  which  those 
treasures  of  his  memory  had  been  finally  borne.  He  sailed 
for  Ireland  ;  proceeded  up  the  Shannon ;  the  vessel  anchor- 
ed in  the  Pool,  near  Limerick,  and  he  hired  a  small  boat  for 
the  purpose  of  landing. 

The  city  was  now  before  him ;  and  he  beheld  St.  Mary's 
steeple,  lifting  its  turreted  head  above  the .  smoke  and  mist 
of  the  Old  Town.  He  sat  in  the  stern,  and  looked  fondly 
toward  it.  It  was  at  evening,  so  calm  and  beautiful,  as  to 
remind  him  of  his  own  native  haven  in  the  sweetest  time 
of  the  year — the  death  of  the  spring.  The  broad  stream 
appeared  like  one  smooth  mirror,  and  the  little  vessel  glided 
through  it  with  almost  a  noiseless  expedition. 

On  a  sudden,  amid  the  general  stillness,  the  bells  tolled 
from  the  cathedral ;  the  rowers  rested  on  their  oars,  and 
the  vessel  went  forward  with  the  impulse  it  had  received. 
The  old  Italian  looked  towards  the  city,  crossed  his  arms 
on  his  breast,  and  lay  back  in  his  seat.  Home,  happiness, 
early  recollections,  friends,  family — all  were  in  the  sound, 
and  went  with  it  to  his  heart.  When  the  rowers  looked 
round,  they  beheld  him  with  his  face  still  turned  toward  the 
cathedral ;  but  his  eyes  were  closed,  and,  when  they  land- 
ed— they  found  him  cold  ! 

Such  are  the  associations,  which  the  ringing  of  St.  Mary's 
bells  brings  to  my  recollection.  I  do  not  know  how  I  can 
better  conclude  this  letter  than  with  the  little  melody,  from 
which  I  hove  taken  the  line  above.  It  is  a  good  specimen 
of  the  peculiar  tingling  melody  of  the  author's  poetry — a 
quality  in  which  he  never  has  been  equalled  in  his  own  lan~ 
guage;  nor  exceeded  in  any  other  : — Why  !  you  can  almost 
fancy  you  hear  them  ringing ! — 

"  Those  evening  bells — those  evening  bells — 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  native  clime, 
When  I  last  heard  their  soothing  chime. 

"  Those  pleasant  hours  have  passed  away, 
And  many  a  heart,  that  then  was  sray, 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells. 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 


NATIONAL  READER.  171 

11  And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone  : 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
When  other  bards  shall  walk  those  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells  1" 


LESSON  XCIV. 

Description  of  Jerusalem  and  the  surrounding  Country. — 
LETTERS  FROM  THE  EAST. 

ALTHOUGH  the  size  of  Jerusalem  was  not  extensive,  its 
very  situation,  on  the  brink  of  rugged  hills,  encircled  by 
deep  and  wild  valleys,  bounded  by  eminences  whose  sides 
were  covered  with  groves  and  gardens,  added  to  its  nume- 
rous towers,  and  temple,  must  have  given  it  a  singular  and 
gloomy  magnificence  scarcely  possessed  by  any  other  city  in 
the  world. 

The  most  pleasing  feature  in  the  scenery  around  the  city 
is  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat.  Passing  out  of  the  gate  of 
St.  Stephen,  you  descend  the  hill  to  the  torrent  of  the 
Ked'ron  :  a  bridge  leads  over  its  dry  and  deep  bed :  it  must 
have  been  a  very  narrow,  though,  in  winter,  a  rapid  stream. 
On  the  left  is  a  grotto,  handsomely  fitted  up,  and  called  the 
tomb  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  though,  it  is  well  known,  she  nei- 
ther died  nor  was  buried  near  Jerusalem.  Being  surprised, 
however,  on  the  hills  by  a  long  and  heavy  shower  of  rain,  we 
were  glad  to  take  shelter  beneath  the  doorway  of  this  grotto. 

A  few  steps  beyond  the  .Kedron,  you  come  to  the  garden 
of  Gethsem'ane,  of  all  gardens  the  most  interesting  and 
hallowed;  but  how  neglected  and  decayed  !  It  is  surround- 
ed by  a  kind  of  low  hedge  ;  but  the  soil  is  bare  ;  no  verdure 
grows  on  it,  save  six  fine  venerable  olive-trees,  which  have 
stood  here  for  many  centuries.  This  spot  is  at  the  foot  of 
Olivet,  and  is  beautifully  situated :  you  look  up  and  down 
the  romantic  valley ;  close  behind  rises  the  mountain ;  be- 
fore you  are  the  walls  of  the  devoted  city. 

While  lingering  here,  at  evening,  and  solitary, — for  it  is 
not  often  a  footstep  passes  by, — that  night  of  sorrow  and  dis- 
may rushes  on  the  imagination,  when  the  Redeemer  was 
betrayed,  and  forsaken  by  all,  even  by  the  loved  disciple. — 
Hence  the  path  winds  up  the  Mount  of  Olives :  it  is  a  beau- 
tiful hill :  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  "  the  mountains  around 
Jerusalem,"  must  not  be  literally  applied,  as  none  are  within 


172  NATIONAL  READER. 

view,  save  those  of  Arabia.  It  is  verdant,  and  covered,  in 
some  parts,  with  olive-trees.  From  the  summit  you  enjoy 
an  admirable  view  of  the  city :  it  is  beneath,  and  very  near ; 
and  looks,  with  its  valleys  around  it,  exactly  like  a  panora- 
ma.^ Its  noble  temple  of  Omar,  and  large  area  planted 
with  palms ;  its  narrow  streets,  ruinous  places,  and  towers, 
are  all  laid  out  before  you. 

On  the  summit  are  the  remains  of  a  church,  built  by  the 
Empress  HeTena;  and,  in  a  small  edifice,  containing  one 
large  and  lofty  apartment,  is  shown  the  print  of  the  last 
footstep  of  Christ,  when  he  took  his  leave  of  earth.  The 
fathers  should  have  placed  it  nearer  to  Bethany,  in  order  to 
accord  with  the  account  given  us  in  Scripture ;  but  it  an- 
swers the  purpose  of  drawing  crowds  of  pilgrims  to  the  spot. 
Descending  Olivet  to  the  narrow  valley  of  Jehoshaphat,  you 
soon  come  to  the  pillar  of  Absalom :  it  has  a  very  antique! 
appearance,  and  is  a  pleasing  object  in  the  valley :  it  is  of  a 
yellow  stone,  adorned  with  half  columns,  formed  into  three 
stages,  and  terminates  in  a  cupola. 

The  tomb  of  Zacharias,  adjoining,  is  square,  with  four  or 
five  pillars,  and  is  cut  out  of  the  rock.  Near  these  is  a  sort 
of  grotto,  hewn  out  of  an  elevated  part  of  the  rock,  with 
four  pillars  in  front,  which  is  said  to  have  been  the  apostles' 
prison  at  the  time  they  were  confined  by  the  rulers.  The 
small  and  wretched  village  of  Siloa  is  built  on  the  rugged 
sides  of  the  hill  above ;  and  just  here  the  valleys  of  Hinnom 
and  Jehoshaphat  meet,  at  the  south-east  corner  of  Mount 
Zion :  they  are  both  sprinkled  with  olive-trees. 

Over  the  ravinet  of  Hinnom,  and  directly  opposite  the 
city,  is  the  Mount  of  Judgment,  or  of  Evil  Counsel ;  because 
there,  they  say,  the  rulers  took  counsel  against  Christ,  and 
the  palace  of  Caiaphas§  stood.  It  is  a  broad,  and  barren  hill, 
without  any  of  the  picturesque II  beauty  of  Olivet,  though 
loftier.  On  its  side  is  pointed  out  the  Aceldama, IT  or  field 
where  Judas  hung  himself:  a  small  and  rude  edifice  stands 
on  it,  and  it  is  used  as  a  bury  ing-place. 

But  the  most  interesting  portion  of  this  hill,  is  where  its 
rocks  descend  precipitously  into  the  valley  of  Hinnom,  and 
are  mingled  with  many  a  straggling  olive-tree.  All  these 
rocks  are  hewn  into  sepulchres  of  various  forms  and  sizes : 
no  doubt  they  were  the  tombs  of  the  ancient  Jews,  and  are 
in  general  cut  with  considerable  care  and  skill.  They  are 
often  the  resting-place  of  the  benighted  passenger.  Some 

*  Pron.  pan-o-ra'-ma — a  as  in  father.        t  an-teek'.        t  ra-veen'. 
§  Cay'-a-phas.  11  pic-tshu-resk'.  U"  A-sel'-da-ma* 


NATIONAL  READER.  173 

of  them,  open  into  inner  apartments,  and  are  provided  with 
small  windows  or  ap'ertures  cut  in  the  rock. 

In  these  there  is  none  of  the  darkness  or  sadness  of  the 
tomb ;  but  in  many,  so  elevated  and  picturesque  is  the  situa- 
tion, a  traveller  may  pass  hours,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
while  valley  and  hill  are  beneath  and  around  him.  Before 
the  door  of  one  large  sepulchre  stood  a  tree  on  the  brink  of 
the  rock ;  the  sun  was  going  down  on  Olivet  on  the  right, 
and  the  resting-place  of  the  dead  commanded  a  sweeter 
scene  than  any  one  of  the  abodes  of  the  living. 

Many  of  the  tombs  have  nights  of  steps  leading  up  to 
them :  it  was  in  one  of  these  that  a  celebrated  traveller 
would  fix  the  site  of  the  holy  sepulchre :  it  is  certainly 
more  picturesque  ;  but  why  more  just,  is  hard  to  conceive ; 
since  the  words  of  Scripture  do  not  fix  the  identity  of  the 
sacred  tomb  to  any  particular  spot,  and  tradition,  on  so 
memorable  an  occasion,  could  hardly  err.  The  fathers  de- 
clare, it  long  since  became  absolutely  necessary  to  cover  the 
native  rock  with  marble,  in  order  to  prevent  the  pilgrims 
from  destroying  it,  in  their  zeal  to  carry  off  pieces  to  their 
homes;  and  on  this  point  their  relation  may,  one  would 
suppose,  be  believed. 

The  valley  of  Hinnom  now  turns  to  the  west  of  the  city, 
and  extends  rather  beyond  the  north  wall :  here  the  plain 
of  Jeremiah  commences,  and  it  is  the  best  wooded  tmct  in 
the  whole  neighbourhood.  In  this  direction,  but  further  on, 
the  historian  of  the  siege  speaks  "  of  a  tower,  that  afforded 
a  prospect  of  Arabia  at  sunrising,  and  of  the  utmost  limits 
of  the  Hebrew  possessions  at  the  sea  westward/'  The 
former  is  still  enjoyed  from  the  city ;  but  the  latter  could 
only  be  had  at  a  much  greater  distance  north,  where  there  is 
no  hill  in  front. 

About  half  a  mile  from  the  wall,  are  the  tombs  of  the 
kings.  In  the  midst  of  a  hollow,  rocky,  and  adorned  with 
a  few  trees,  is  the  entrance  ;  you  then  find  a  large  apartment, 
above  fifty  feet  long,  at  the  side  of  which  a  low  door,  over 
which  is  a  beautiful  frieze,*  leads  into  a  seriest  of  small 
chambers,  in  the  walls  of  which  are  several  deep  recesses, 
hewn  out  of  the  rock,  of  the  size  of  the  human  body.  There 
are  six  or  seven  of  these  low  and  dark  apartments,  one  or 
two  of  which  are  adorned  with  vine-leaves  and  clusters  of 
grapes.  Many  parts  of  the  stone  coffins,  beautifully  orna- 

*  Pron.  freeze.  t  se'-re-ds, 


174  NATIONAL  READER. 

merited  in  the  Saracenic  manner,  are  strewed^  on  the  floor : 
it  would  seem,  that  some  hand  of  ravage  had  broken  them 
to  pieces,  with  the  view  of  finding  something  valuable  with- 
in. The  sepulchres  of  the  judges,  so  called,  are  situated  in 
a  wild  spot  about  two  miles  from  the  city.  They  bear  much 
resemblance  to  those  of  the  kings,  but  are  not  so  handsome 
or  spacious. 

Returning  to  the  foot  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  you  pro- 
ceed up  the  vale  of  Jehoshaphat  on  a  line  with  the  plain : 
it  widens  as  you  advance,  and  is  more  thickly  sprinkled  with 
olives.  When  arrived  at  the  hill  in  which  it  terminates,  the 
appearance  of  the  city  and  its  en'virons  is  rich  and  magnifi- 
cent ;  and  you  cannot  help  thinking,  that,  were  an  English 
party  suddenly  transported  here,  they  would  not  believe  it 
was  the  sad  and  dreary  Jerusalem  they  were  gazing  on. 

This  is  the  finest  point  to  view  it  from ;  for  its  numerous 
min'arets  and  superb  mosque  are  seen  to  great  advantage 
over  the  trees  of  the  plain  and  valley,  and  the  foreground  is 
verdant  and  cultivated.  One  or  two  houses  of  the  Turks 
stood  in  this  spot,  and  we  had  trespassed  on  the  rude  garden 
of  one  of  them,  where  the  shade  of  a  spreading  tree  invited 
us  to  linger  over  the  prospect.  For  some  days  there  had 
been  heavy  falls  of  rain,  yet  the  bed  of  the  Kedron  was  still 
dry,  and  has  been  so,  most  probably,  for  many  centuries. 

The  climate  of  the  city  and  country  is  in  general  very 
healthy.  The  elevated  position  of  the  former,  and  the  nu- 
merous hills  which  cover  the  greater  part  of  Palestine,  must 
conduce  greatly  to  the  purity  of  the  air.  One  seldom  sees  a 
country  overrun  with  hills  in  the  manner  this  is  :  in  general 
they  are  not  in  ranges,-  but  more  or  less  is'olated,  and  of  a 
picturesque  form.  Few  of  them  approach  to  the  character 
of  mountains,  save  Carmel,  the  Quaranti'na,  the  shores  of 
the  lakes,  and  those  which  bound  the  valley  of  the  Jordan. 

To  account  for  the  existence  of  so  large  a  population  in 
the  promised  lands,  the  numerous  hills  must  have  been  en- 
tirely cultivated :  at  present,  their  appearance,  on  the  sides 
and  summits,  is,  for  the  most  part,  bare  and  rocky.  In  old 
time,  they  were  probably  formed  into  terraces,  as  is  now 
seen  on  the  few  cultivated  ones,  where  the  vine,  olive,  and 
fig-tree  flourish. 

On  a  delightful  evening,  we  rode  to  the  wilderness  of  St. 
John.  The  mon'astery  of  that  name  stands  at  the  entrance  : 
it  is  a  good  and  spacious  building,  and  its  terrace  enjoys  a 

t  Pron.  strowed. 


NATIONAL  READER.  175 

fine  prospect,  in  which  is  the  lofty  hill  of  Modin,  with  the 
ruins  of  the  palace  of  the  Maccabees  on  its  summit.  A 
small  village  adjoins  the  convent,  in  which  are  shown  the 
remains  of  the  house  of  Elizabeth,  where  the  meeting  with 
Mary  took  place.  But  few  monks  reside  in  the  convent, 
which  affords  excellent  accommodations  for  a  traveller. 
#  ^  *  =fc 

In  the  church,  a  rich  altar  is  erected  on  the  spot  where 
St.  John  was  born,  with  an  inscription  over  it.  The  next 
morning  we  visited  the  wilderness  :  it  is  narrow,  partially 
cultivated,  and  sprinkled  with  trees;  the  hills  rise  rather 
steep  on  each  side ;  from  that  on  the  right,  a  small  stream 
flows  into  the  ravine  below.  The  whole  appearance  of  the 
place  is'  romantic ;  and  the  prophet  might  have  resided  here, 
while  exercising  his  ministry,  with  very  little  hardship. 
The  neighbourhoocj/still,  no  doubt,  produces  excellent  honey, 
which  is  to  be  had  throughout  Palestine. 

High  up  the  rocky  side  of  the  hill  on  the  left,  amidst  a 
profusion  of  trees,  is  the  cave  or  grotto  01  St.  John.  A 
fountain  gushes  out  close  by.  When  we  talk  of  wilder- 
nesses, mountains,  and  plains,  in  Palestine,  it  is  to  be  under- 
stood, that  they  seldom  answer  to  the  size  of  the  same  ob- 
jects in  more  extensive  countries  ;  that  they  sometimes  pre- 
sent but  a  beautiful  miniature  of  them.  It  certainly  deserved 
the  term,  given  by  the  Psalmist  to  the  city,  of  being  a 
*  •  compact"  country. 

The  Baptist,  in  his  wrild  garb,  surrounded  by  an  assem- 
blage of  various  characters,  warning  them  to  repentance,  in 
this  wild  spot,  must  have  presented  a  fine  subject  for  the 
painter.  In  wandering  over  the  country,  we  feel  persuaded, 
that  its  very  scenery  lent  wings  to  the  poetical  and  figurative 
discourses  of  its  prophets  and  seers.  Sublime  and  diversi- 
fied, it  is  yet  so  confined  and  minute  as  to  admit  the  deepest 
seclusion  in  the  midst  of  a  numerous  population. 

The  monks  in  the  convent  are  of  the  Catholic  order,  and 
have  the  advantage  of  all  their  brethren  in  point  of  situation 
and  comfort ;  and  yet  nothing  will  induce  these  Franciscans 
to  keep  their  habitations  clean :  the  Greek  and  Armenian 
monasteries  are  palaces  compared  to  them.  The  fathers  are, 
in  general,  a  very  ignorant  race  of  men,  chiefly  from  the 
•  lowest  orders  of  society.  Their  tables,  except  during  lent, 
axe  spread  plentifully,  twice  a  day,  with  several  dishes  of 
meat  and  wine ;  and  so  well  do  many  of  them  thrive,  that 
they  would  consider  it  banishment  to  be  sent  home  to  Eu- 
rope to  their  friends. 


176  NATIONAL  READER/ 

From  the  east  end  of  the  wilderness,  you  enter  the 
famous  valley  of  Elah,  where  Goli'ah  was  slain  by  the 
champion  of  Israel.  It  is  a  pretty  and  interesting  spot ; 
the  hottom  covered  with  olive-trees.  Its  present  appearance 
answers  exactly  to  the  description  given  in  Scripture ;  the 
two  hills,  on  wrhich  the  armies  stood,  entirely  confining  it  on 
the  right  and  left.  The  valley  is  not  above  half  a  mile 
broad.  Tradition  was  not  required  to  identify  this  spot : 
nature  has  stamped  it  with  everlasting  features  of  truth. 
The  brook  still  flows  through  it  in  a  winding  course,  from 
which  David  took  the  smooth  stones ;  the  hills  are  not  pre- 
cipitous, but  slope  gradually  down ;  and  the  vale  is  varied 
with  banks  and  undulations,  and  not  a  single  habitation  is 
visible  in  it.  *  *  *  * 


LESSON   XCV. 

The  same,  concluded. 

AT  the  south-east  of  Zion,  in  the  vale  of  Jehoshaphat, 
they  say  the  gardens  of  Solomon  stood,  and  also  on  the  sides 
of  the  hill  adjoining  that  of  Olivet.  It  was  not  a  bad,  though 
rather  a  confined,  site  for  them.  The  valley  here  is  covered 
with  a  rich  verdure,  divided  by  hedges  into  a  number  of 
small  gardens.  A  mean  looking  village  stands  on  the  rocky 
side  of  the  hill  above.  Not  a  single  palm-tree  is  to  be  seen 
in  the  whole  territory  around,  where  once  every  eminence 
was  covered  with  them. 

The  roads  leading  to  the  city  are  bad,  except  to  the  north, 
being  the  route  to  Damascus ;  but  the  supplies  of  wood 
and  other  articles  for  building  the  temple,  must  have  come 
by  another  way  than  the  near  and  direct  one  from  Jaffa, 
which  is  impassable  for  burthens  of  a  large  size,  from  the 
defiles  and  rocks  amidst  which  it  is  carried;  the  circuitous 
routes  by  land  from  Tyre  or  Acre  were  probably  used.  The 
Turk,  who  is  chief  of  the  guard  that  keeps  watch  at  the 
entrance  of  the  sacred  church,  waited  on  us  two  or  three 
times ;  he  is  a  very  fine  and  dignified  looking  man,  and 
ensured  us  entrance  at  all  hours,  which  permission  we  avail- 
ed ourselves  of,  to  pass  another  night  amidst  its  hallowed 
scenes,  with  interest  and  pleasure  but  little  diminished. 

We  chose  a  delightful  morning  for  a  walk  to  Bethany. 


NATIONAL  READER.  177 

The  path  leads  up  the  side  of  Olivet,  by  the  veiy  way  which 
our  Saviour  is  said  to  have  descended  in  his  last  entry  into 
Jerusalem.  At  a  short  distance  are  the  ruins  of  the  village 
of  Bethphage  ;  and,  half  a  mile  further,  is  Bethany.  The  dis- 
tance is  about  two  miles  from  the  city.  The  village  is  beau- 
tifully situated ;  and  the  ruins  of  the  house  of  Lazarus  are 
still  shown,  and  do  credit  to  the  good  father's  taste. 

On  the  right  of  the  road  is  the  tomb  of  Lazarus,  cut  out 
of  the  rock.  Carrying  candles,  we  descended  ten  or  twelve 
stone  steps  to  the  bottom  of  the  cave:  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  is  the  tomb,  a  few  feet  deep,  and  large  enough  to  admit 
one  body  only.  Several  persons  can  stand  conveniently 
in  the  cave  around  the  tomb,  so  that  Lazarus,  when  restor- 
ed, did  not,  as  some  suppose,  descend  from  a  sepulchre  cut 
out  of  the  wall,  but  rose  out  of  the  grave,  hewn  in  the  floor 
of  the  grotto. 

The  light  that  enters  from  above  does  not  find  its  way  to 
the  bottom ;  the  fine  painting  in  the  Louvre,  of  this  resur- 
rection, was  probably  faithful  in  representing  it  by  torch- 
light. Its  identity  cannot  be  doubted :  "the  position  of  Betha- 
ny could  never  have  been  forgotten,  and  this  is  the  only 
sepulchre  in  the  whole  neighbourhood.  It  is  a  delightful 
Sunday  afternoon's  walk  to  Bethany  :  after  crossing  the 
mounts,  the  path  passes  along  the  side  of  a  hill,  that  looks 
down  into  a  wild  and  long  valley,  in  which  are  a  few  scat- 
tered cottages.  The  view,  just  above  the  village,  is  very 
magnificent,  as  it  embraces  the  Dead  Sea,  the  valley  and  river 
of  the  Jordan,  and  its  confluence  with  the  lake. 

On  the  descent  of  Olivet  is  shown  the  spot  where  Christ 
wept  over  Jerusalem :  tradition  could  not  have  selected  a 
more  suitable  spot.  Up  this  ascent  David  went,  when  he 
fled  from  Absalom,  weeping.  And,  did  a  Jew  wish  to  breathe 
his  last  where  the  glory  of  his  land  and  fallen  city  should 
meet  his  departing  gaze,  he  would  desire  to  be  laid  on  the 
summit  of  the  Mount  of  Olives. 

The  condition  of  the  Jews  in  Palestine  is  more  insecure, 
and  exposed  to  insult  and  exaction,  than  in  Egypt  and  Syria, 
from  the  frequent  lawless  and  oppressive  conduct  of  the 
governors  and  chiefs.  These  distant  pachalics^  are  less 
under  the  control  of  the  Porte  t;  and,  in  Egypt,  the  subjects 
of  Mahmoud  enjoy  a  more  equitable  and  quiet  government 
than  in  any  other  part  of  the  empire.  There  is  little  na- 

*Pron.  p&'-shaw-lics.  t  The  Ottoman  government 


178  NATIONAL  READER. 

* 

tional  feeling  or  enthusiasm  among  them ;  though  there  are 
some  exceptions,  where  these  exist  in  an  intense  degree.  In 
the  city,  they  appear  fearful  and  humbled ;  for  the  contempt 
in  which  they  are  held  by  the  Turks  is  excessive,  and  they 
often  go  poorly  clad  to  avoid  exciting  suspicion. 

Yet  it  is  an  interesting  sight,  to  meet  with  a  Jew,  wander- 
ing, with  his  staff  in  his  hand,  and  a  venerable  beard  sweep- 
ing his  tosom,  in  the  rich  and  silent  plain  of  Jericho,  on  the 
sides  of  his  native  mountains,  or  on  the  banks  of  the  ancient 
river  Kish'on,  where  the  arm  of  the  mighty  was  withered  in 
the  battle  of  the  Lord.  Did  a  spark  of  the  love  of  his  coun- 
try warm  his  heart,  his  feelings  must  be  exquisite, — but  his 
spirit  is  suited  to  his  condition, 


LESSON  XCVI. 

that  ye}  through  his  poverty r,  might  be  rich"- 

W.  RUSSELL. 

Low  in  the  dim  and  sultry  west 

Is  the  fierce  sun  of  Syria's  sky ; 
The  evening's  grateful  hour  of  rest, 

Its  hour  of  feast  and  joy,  is  nigh. 

But  he,  with  thirst  and  hunger  spent, 
Lone,  by  the  wayside  faintly  sinks ; 

A  lowly  hand  the  cup  hath  lent, 

And  from  the  humble  well  he  drinks. 

*       #        #        #        #        # 

On  the  dark  wave  of  Galilee 

The  gloom  of  twilight  gathers  fast, 

And  o'er  the  waters  drearily 
Sweeps  the  bleak  evening  blast. 

The  weary  bird  hath  left  the  air, 
And  sunk  into  his  sheltered  rest ; 

The  wandering  beast  hath  sought  his  lair, 
And  laid  him  down  to  welcome  rest. 

Still,  near  the  lake,  with  weary  tread, 
Lingers  a  form  of  human  kind ; 


NATIONAL  READER.  179 

And,  from  his  lone,  unsheltered  head, 
Flows  the  chili  night-damp  on  the  wind. 

Why  seeks  not  he  a  home  of  rest? 

Why  seeks  not  he  the  pillowed  bed? 
Beasts  have  their  dens,  the  bird  its  nest  ;— 

He  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head! 

Such  was  the  lot  he  freely  chose, 

To  bless,  to  save,  the  human  race ; 
And,  through  his  poverty,  there  flows 

A  rich,  full  stream  of  heavenly  grace. 


LESSON  XCVIL 
Elijah  fed  ly  Ravens. — GRAHAME. 

SORE  was  the  famine  throughout  all  the  bounds 
Of  Israel,  when  Elijah,  by  command 
Of  God,  toiled  on  to  Cherith's  failing  brook. 
No  rain-drops  fall,  no  dew- fraught  cloud,  at  morn, 
Or  closing  eve,  creeps  slowly  up  the  vale. 
The  withering  herbage  dies.     Among  the  palms, 
The  shrivelled  leaves  send  to  the  summer  gale 
An  autumn  rustle.     No  sweet  songster's  lay 
Is  warbled  from  the  branches.     Scarce  is  heard 
The  rill's  faint  brawl.     The  prophet  looks  around, 
And  trusts  in  God,  and  lays'  his  silvered  head 
Upon  the  flowerless  bank.     Serene  he  sleeps, 
Nor  wakes  till  dawning.     Then,  with  hands  enclasped, 
And  heavenward  face,  and  eye-lids  closed,  he  prays 
To  Him  who  manna  on  the  desert  showered, 
To  Him  who  from  the  rock  made  fountains  gush. 
Entranced  the  man  of  God  remains;  till,  routed 
By  sound  of  wheeling  wings,  with  grateful  heart 
He  sees  the  ravens  fearless  by  his  side 
Alight,  arid  leave  the  heaven-provided  food. 


180  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  XCVIII. 
Mount  Sinai. — LETTERS  FROM  THE  EAST. 

LEAVING  the  valley  of  Paran,  the  path  led  over  a  rocky 
wilderness,  to  render  which  more  gloomy,  the  sky  became 
clouded,  and  a  shower  of  rain  fell.  By  moonlight  we  as- 
cended the  hills,  and,  after  some  hours'  progress,  rested  for 
the  night  on  the  sand.  The  dews  had  fallen  heavy  for  some 
nights,  and  the  clothes  that  covered  us  were  quite  wet  in  tho 
morning ;  hut,  as  we  advanced,  the  dews  ceased. 

Our  mode  of  life,  though  irregular,  was  quite  to  a  wander- 
er's taste.  We  sometimes  stopped  for  an  hour,  at  mid-day, 
or,  more  frequently,  took  some  hread  and  a  draught  of  water 
on  the  camel's  back ;  but  we  were  repaid  for  our  fatigues, 
when  we  halted  for  the  evening,  as  the  sun  was  sinking  in 
the  desert,  and,  having  taken  our  supper,  strolled  amidst  the 
solitudes,  or  spent  the  hours  in  conversation  till  dark. 

But  the  bivouac^  by  night  was  the  most  striking,  when, 
arriving,  fatigued,  long  after  dark,  the  two  fires  were  light- 
ed. I  have  frequently  retired  to  some  distance  to  gaze  at 
the  group  of  Arabs  round  theirs,  it  was  so  entirely  in  keep 
ing.  They  were  sipping  their  coffee,  and  talking  with  ex- 
pressive action  and  infinite  vivacity ;  and,  as  they  addressed 
each  other,  they  often  bent  over  the  flame  which  glanced  on 
their  white  turbans  and  drapery  and  dark  countenances,  and 
the  camels  stood  behind,  and  stretched  their  long  necks  over 
their  masters. 

Having  finished  our  repast,  we  wrapped  ourselves  in  our 
cloaks,  and  lay  down  round  the  fire :  and  let  not  that  couch 
be  pitied ;  for  it  was  delightful,  as  well  as  romantic,  to  sink 
to  rest  as  you  looked  on  that  calm  and  glorious  sky,  the 
stars  shining  with  a  brilliancy  you  have  no  conception  of  in 
our  climate.  Then,  in  the  morning,  we  were  suddenly  sum- 
moned to  depart,  and,  the  camels  being  loaded,  we  were  soon 
on  the  march.  Jouma  frequently  chanted  his  melancholy 
Arab  song,  for  at  this  time  we  were  seldom  disposed  to  con- 
verse, and  were  frequently  obliged  to  throw  a  blanket  over 
our  cloak,  and  walk  for  some  hours,  to  guard  against  the 
dullness  of  the  air. 

The  sunsets  in  Egypt  are  the  finest;  but  to  see  a  sunrise  in 
its  glory,  you  must  be  in  the  desert :  nothing  there  obscures 
or  obstructs  it.      You  are  travelling  on,  chill   and   silent, 
*JPron.  be-voo-acj  an  encampment  for  a  nigh*. 


NATIONAL  READER.  1S1 

your  looks  bent  toward  the  east;  a  variety  of  glowing  hues 
appear  and  die  away  again;  and,  for  some  time,  the  sky  is 
blue  and  clear ;  when  the  sun  suddenly  darts  above  the  hori- 
zon, and  such  a  splendour  is  thrown  instantly  on  the  wide 
expanse  of  sand  and  rocks,  that,  if  you  were  a  Persian  adorer, 
you  would  certainly  break  out,  like  the  muezzin^  from  the 
minaret,  in  praise  and  blessing. 

The  way  now  became  very  interesting,  and  varied  by 
several  narrow,  deep  valleys,  where  a  few  stunted  palms 
grew.  The  next  morning,  we  entered  a  noble  desert,  lined 
on  each  side  by  lofty  mountains  of  rock,  many  of  them  per- 
fectly black,  with  sharp  and  ragged  summits.  In  the  midst 
of  the  plain,  which  rose  with  a  continual  yet  gentle  ascent, 
were  isolated  rocks  of  various  forms  and  colours,  and  over 
its  surface  were  scattered  a  number  of  shrubs  of  a  lively 
green.  Through  all  the  route,  we  had  met  few  passengers. 
One  or  two  little  caravans,  or  a  lonely  wanderer  with  his 
camel,  had  passed  at  times,  and  given  us  the  usual  salute 
of  "Peace  be  unto  you.""  *  *  *  * 

A  few  hours  more  we  got  sight  of  the  mountains  round 
Sinai.  Their  appearance  was  magnificent ;  when  we  drew 
nearer,  and  emerged  out  of  a  deep  pass,  the  scenery  was 
infinitely  striking,  and,  on  the  right,  extended  a  vast  range 
of  mountains  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  from  the  vicinity 
of  Sinai  down  to  Tor.  They  were  perfectly  bare,  but  of 
grand  and  singular  form.  We  had  hoped  to  reach  the  con- 
vent by  day-light,  but  the  moon  had  risen  some  time,  when 
we  entered  the  mouth  of  a  narrow  pass,  where  our  conduc- 
tors advised  us  to  dismount 

A  gentle  yet  perpetual  ascent,  led  on,  mile  after  mile,  up 
this  mournful  valley,  whose  aspect  was  terrific,  yet  ever 
varying.  It  was  not  above  two  hundred  yards  in  width,  and 
the  mountains  rose  to  an  immense  height  on  each  side. 
The  road  wound  at  their  feet  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice, 
and  amidst  masses  of  rock  that  had  fallen  from  above.  It 
was  a  toilsome  path,  generally  over  stones,  placed  like  steps, 
probably  by  the  Arabs;  and  the  moonlight  was  of  little  ser- 
vice to  us  in  this  deep  valley,  as  it  only  rested  on  the  frown- 
ing summits  above. 

Where  is  Mount  Sinai  ?  was  the  inquiry  of  every  one. 
The  Arabs  pointed  before  to  Gabel  Mousa,  the  Mount  of 

*  Muezzin^ — one  of  a  religious  order,  among  the  Mahommedans,  whose 
clear  and  Mmorous  voice,  from  the  minaret,  or  steeple  of  a  mosque,  answers 
the  purpose  of  a  bell,  among  Christians;  to  call  the  people  to  morning  and 

16 


182  NATIONAL  READER. 

Moses,  as  it  is  called,  but  we  could  not  distinguish  it.  Again, 
and  again,  point  after  point  was  turned,  and  we  saw  but  the 
same  stern  scenery.  But  what  had  the  softness  and  beauty 
of  nature  to  do  here  ?  Mount  Sinai  required  an  approach 
like  this,  where  all  seemed  to  proclaim  the  land  of  miracles, 
and  to  have  been  visited  by  the  terrors  of  the  Lord. 

The  scenes,  as  you  gaze  around,  had  an  unearthly  charac- 
ter, suited  to  the  sound  of  the  fearful  trumpet  that  was  once 
heard  there.  We  entered  at  last  on  the  more  open  valley, 
about  half  a  mile  wide,  and  drew  near  this  famous  mountain. 
Sinai  is  not  so  lofty  as  some  of  the  mountains  around  it,  and 
in  its  form  there  is  nothing  graceful  or  peculiar,  to  distin- 
guish it  from  others.  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

On  the  third  morning  we  set  out  early  from  the  convent 
for  the  summit  of  Mount  Sinai,  with  two  Arab  guides.  The 
ascent  was,  for  some  time,  over  long  and  broken  flights  of 
stone  steps,  placed  there  by  the  Greeks.  The  path  was  often 
narrow  and  steep,  and  wound  through  lofty  masses  of  rock 
on  each  side.  In  about  half  an  hour,  we  came  to  a  well  of 
excellent  water;  a  short  distance  above  which  is  a  small, 
ruined  chapel. 

About  half  way  up  was  a  verdant  and  pleasant  spot,  in  the 
midst  of  which  stood  a  high  and  solitary  palm,  and  the  rocks 
rose  in  a  small  and  wild  amphitheatre  around.  We  were 
not  very  long  now  in  reaching  the  summit,  which  is  of  limit- 
ed extent,  having  two  small  buildings  on  it,  used  formerly 
by  the  Greek  pilgrims,  probably  for  worship. 

But  Sinai  has  four  summits ;  and  that  of  Moses  stands 
almost  in  the  middle  of  the  others,  and  is  not  visible  from 
below,  so  that  the  spot  where  he  received  the  law  must  have 
been  hid  from  the  view  of  the  multitudes  around ;  and  the 
smoke  and  flame,  which,  Scripture  says,  enveloped  the  en- 
tire Mount  of  Sinai,  must  have  had  the  more  awful  appear- 
ance, by  reason  of  its  many  summits  and  great  extent ;  and 
the  account  delivered  gives  us  reason  to  imagine,  the  sum- 
mit or  scene  where  God  appeared  was  shrouded  from  the 
hosts  around. 

But  what  occasions  no  small  surprise  at  first,  is  the  scar- 
city of  plains,  valleys,  or  open  places,  where  the  children 
of  Israel  could  have  stood  conveniently  to  behold  the  glory 
on  the  mount.  From  the  summit  of  Sinai  you  see  only  in- 
numerable ranges  of  rocky  mountains.  One  generally  pla- 
ces, in  imagination,  around  Sinai,  extensive  plains,  or  sandy 
deserts,  where  the  camp  of  the  hosts  was  placed,  where  the 


NATIONAL  READER.  183 

families  of  Israel  stood  at  the  doors  of  their  tents,  and  the 
line  was  drawn  round  the  mountain,  which  no  one  might 
break  through  on  pain  of  death. 

But  it  is  not  thus  :  save  the  valley  by  which  we  approach- 
ed Sinai,  about  half  a  mile  wide,  and  a  few  miles  in  length, 
and  a  small  plain  we  afterwards  passed  through,  with  ajocky 
hill  in  the  middle,  there  appear  to  be  few  open  places  around 
the  mount.  We  did  not,  however,  examine  it  on  all  sides. 
On  putting  the  question  to  the  superior  of  the  convent, 
where  he  imagined  the  Israelites  stood;  "Every  where,"  he 
replied,  waving  his  hands  about — "  in  the  ravines,  the  val- 
leys, as  well  as  the  plains." 

Having  spent  an  hour  here,  we  descended  to  the  place  of 
verdure,  and,  after  resting  awhile,  took  our  road,  with  one  of 
the  guides,  towards  the  mountain  of  St.  Catharine.  T?he 
rapture  of  Mr.  Wolf's  feelings  on  the  top  of  Sinai  was  in- 
describable ;  I  expected  to  see  him  take  flight  for  a  better 
region.  Being  the  son  of  a  rabbi  at  Munich,  the  conviction 
of  being  on  the  scene  where  God  visited  his  people,  and  con- 
ferred such  glory  on  them,  was  almost  too  much  for  him. 

After  ascending  again,  in  another  direction,  we  came 
to  a  long  and  steep  descent,  that  commanded  a  very  no- 
ble scene,  and  reached,  at  last,  a  little  valley  at  the  bottom, 
that  was  to  be  our  resting-place  for  the  night.  The  moun- 
tains rose  around  this  valley  in  vast  precipices :  a  line  of 
beautiful  verdure  ran  along  its  whole  extent,  in  the  midst  of 
which  stood  a  deserted  mon'astery.  The  fathers  had  long 
been  driven  from  it  by  the  Arabs,  but  its  various  apartments 
were  still  entire,  and  afforded  an  excellent  asylum  for  a  tra- 
veller. 

This  deep  solitude  had  an  exceeding  and  awful  beauty : 
the  palms,  the  loftiest  I  ever  saw,  rose  moveless,  and  the 
garden  and  grove  were  desolate  and  neglected ;  the  fountain 
in  the  latter  was  now  useless,  and  the  channel  of  the  rivulet 
that  ran  through  the  valley  was  quite  dry ;  the  walls  were 
in  ruins,  and  the  olive,  the  poplar,  and  other  trees,  grew  in 
wild  luxuriance. 

Within,  some  old  books  of  devotion  were  yet  left  behind. 
Having  chosen  an  apartment  in  the  upper  story,  which  open- 
ed into  the  corridor,  and  had  been  one  of  the  cells  of  the 
exiled  fathers,  we  took  possession  of  it  at  night,  kindled  a 
fire  on  a  large  stone  in  a  corner,  and  made  a  good  supper  of 
the  rude  provisions  we  had.  There  needed  no  spirit  of  ro- 
mance in  order  to  enjoy  the  situation  exquisitely:  few  ideal 


184 


NATIONAL  READER. 


pictures  ever  equalled  the  strangeness  and  savageness  of  this 
forsaken  sanctuary  in  the  retreats  of  Sinai. 


LESSON   XCIX. 

The  Summit  of  Mount  Sinai. — MONTGOBIERY. 

I  SEEK  the  mountain  cleft :  alone 
I  seem  in  this  sequestered  place  : — 

Not  so  :  I  meet,  unseen,  yet  known, 
My  Maker,  face  to  face. 

My  heart  perceives  his  presence  nigh, 
And  hears  his  voice  proclaim, 

While  bright  his  glory  passes  by, 
His  noblest  name. 

LOVE  is  that  name — for  "  God  is  Love." 
Here,  where,  unbuilt  by  mortal  hands — 

Mountains  below,  and  heaven  above — 
His  awful  temple  stands, 

I  worship. — Lord,  though  I  am  dust 
And  ashes  in  thy  sight, 

Be  thou  my  strength  ; — in  thee  I  trust ; — 
Be  thou  my  light. 

Hither,  of  old,  the  Almighty  came  : 

Clouds  were  his  car,  his  steeds  the  wind : 

Before  him  went  devouring  flame, 
And  thunder  rolled  behind. 

At  his  approach  the  mountains  reeled, 
Like  vessels,  to  and  fro ; 

Earth,  heaving  like  a  sea,  revealed 
The  gulfs  below. 

Borne  through  the  wilderness  in  wrath, 
He  seemed,  in  power  alone,  a  God  : 

But  blessings  followed  in  his  path, 
For  Mercy  seized  his  rod. 

He  smote  the  rock,  and,  as  he  passed, 
Forth  gushed  a  living  stream  ; 

The  fire,  the  earthquake,  and  the  blast, 
Fled  as  a  dream. 


NATIONAL  READER.  185 


LESSON  C. 

Religious  Education  indispensable  to  individual  Happiness^ 
and  to  national  Prosperity. — GREENWOOD. 

RELIGION  is  the  only  sure  foundation  of  virtue  ;  and  what 
is  any  human  being,  young  or  old,  rich  or  poor,  without  vir- 
tue ?  He  cannot  be  trusted,  he  cannot  be  respected,  confided 
in,  or  loved.  Religion  is  the  only  sure  index  of  duty ;  and 
how  can  any  one  pursue  an  even,  or  a  reputable  course,  with- 
out rules  and  without  principles  ?  Religion  is  the  only  guide 
to  true  happiness  ;  and  who  is  there  so  hardy  as  to  assume 
the  tremendous  responsibility  of  withholding  those  instruc- 
tions and  consolations,  which  dispel  doubt,  soothe  affliction, 
make  the  bed  of  sickness,  spread  the  dying  pillow,  and  open 
the  gates  of  an  effulgent  futurity  ? 

Let,  then,  religion  be  the  primary  object  in  the  education 
of  the  young.  Let  it  mingle,  naturally,  easily,  and  graceful- 
ly, in  all  their  pursuits  and  acquirements.  Let  it  be  rendered 
intelligible,  attractive,  and  practical.  Let  it  win  their  affec- 
tions, command  their  reverence,  and  ensure  their  obedience. 
Children,  of  any  class  whatever,  may  be  taught  in  a  great 
compass  and  liberality  of  knowledge,  not  only  without  appre- 
hension, but  with  assiduity  and  encouragement ;  but  let  them 
above  all  things,  be  "  taught  of  the  Lord." 

And  what  follows  ?  When  all  thy  children  shall  be  taught 
of  the  Lord,  what  is  the  promise,  the  reward,  and  the  con- 
summation ?  "  Great  shall  be  the  peace  of  thy  children." 
All  the  blessings,  signified 'by  that  word  peace,  shall  be  the 
lot  of  those  who  are  thus  wisely  instructed,  and  shall  descend 
on  the  community,  in  proportion  as  it  has  exerted  itself  to 
diffuse  light  and  religion  throughout  its  whole  mass. 

Knowledge  of  itself  is  power ;  and  when  the  knowledge 
of  the  Lord  is  united  with  it,  it  is  happiness  and  real  pros- 
perity. Order  reigns — the  best  order — that  which  is  pro- 
duced, not  so  much  by  the  coercive  operations  of  authority 
and  law,  as  by  the  independent  righteousness  of  each  indi- 
vidual, who  bears  about  with  him  his  own  law :  freedom 
finds  its  congenial  habitation  and  home ;  for  general  intelli- 
gence inspires  mutual  respect,  and  self-respect ;  and,  "  where 
the  spirit  of  the  Lord  is,  there  is  liberty." 

Benevolence  is  ever  active  and  zealous ;  for  knowledge  is 
the  enemy  of  selfishness.  Religion  warms  and  expands  the 


186 


NATIONAL  READER. 


heart,  and  the  disciple  of  Christ  is  assured,  that  the  best  ser- 
vice of  God  is  the  service  of  mankind.  In  short,  there  can- 
not be  other  than  a  sense  of  security,  and  a  composed  coun- 
tenance of  peace,  felt  and  experienced  throughout  society, 
when  those  principles  of  religious  knowledge  are  generally 
and  practically  received,  which  hold  up  plainly  before  the 
face  of  every  man,  his  duty  to  his  Maker,  to  his  neighbour, 
and  to  his  own  self. 

Then  there  is  that  separate,  individual  peace,  which  takes 
up  its  dwelling  in  the  hearts  of  all  those  who  have  been 
taught  of  the  Lord ;  a  peace,  holy,  heavenly,  profound, 
which  the  world  cannot  give,  because  it  is  above  the  world, 
and  independent  of  it ;  the  peace  of  a  quiet  conscience,  of  a 
regulated  mind,  of  innocent  hopes,  of  calm  desires,  of  the 
love  which  embraces  humanity,  and  the  trust  which  reposes 
on  Heaven  ;  a  gentle  river,  running  through  the  life,  im- 
parting beauty,  pouring  out  refreshment,  and  lending  its 
grateful  moisture  to  the  most  hidden  and  attenuated  roots 
and  threads  of  sentiment  and  feeling,  clothing  the  sands 
with  verdure,  and  sprinkling  the  lonely  places  with  sweet 
flowers.  Add  this  peace  of  each  single  bosom  to  that  gene- 
ral peace  which  pervades  the  community,  and  how  truly  may 
it  be  called  great ! 

I  deny  not  that  a  nation  may  become  powerful,  victorious, 
renowned,  wealthy,  and  full  of  great  men,  even  though  it 
should  neglect  the  education  of  the  humbler  classes  of  its 
population  ;  but  I  do  deny,  that  it  can  ever  become  a  happy 
or  a  truly  prosperous  nation,  till  all  its  children  are  taught 
of  the  Lord. 

To  say  nothing  of  the  despotisms  of  the  east,  look  at  the 
kingdoms  of  Europe,  with  their  battles,  and  their  alliances, 
and  their  pompous  and  gaudy  ceremonies,  and  their  impos- 
ing clusters  of  high  titles  and  celebrated  names  ;  and,  after 
this  showy  phantasmagoria  has  passed  away,  mark  the  con- 
dition of  the  majority,  observe  their  superstition,  their  sla- 
vishness,  their  sensual  enjoyments,  their  limited  range  of 
thought,  their  almost  brutalized  existence  ;  mark  this,  and 
say  whether  a  heavenly  peace  is  among  them.  Alas  !  they 
know  not  the  things  which  belong  to  their  peace,  nor 
are  their  rulers  desirous  that  they  should  know,  but  rather 
prefer  that  they  should  live  on  in  submissive  ignorance,  that 
they  may  be  at  all  times  ready  to  swell  the  trains  of  their 
masters'  pride,  and  be  sacrificed  by  hecatombs  to  their  mas- 
ters' ambition. 


NATIONAL   READER.  1S7 

Far  different  were  the  views  of  those  gifted  patriarchs 
who  founded  a  new  empire  here.  They  were  determined 
that  all  their  children  should  be  taught  of  the  Lord;  and, 
side  by  side  with  the  humble  dwellings,  which  sheltered 
their  heads  from  the  storms  of  a  strange  world,  arose  the 
school-house  and  the  house  of  God.  And,  ever  after,  the 
result  has  been  peace, — great,  unexampled  peace  ;  peace  to 
the  few,  who  gradually  encroached  on  the  primeval  forests 
of  the  land,  and  peace  to  the  millions,  who  have  now  spread 
themselves  abroad  in  it  from  border  to  border.  In  the 
strength  and  calm  resolution  of  that  peace  they  stood  up 
once,  and  shook  themselves  free  from  the  rusted  fetters  of 
the  old  world  ;  and  in  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  that  peace 
they  stand  up  now,  self-governed,  orderly,  and  independent, 
— a  wonder  to  the  nations. 

If  a,  stranger  should  inquire  of  me  the  principal  cause  and 
source  of  this  greatness  of  my  country,  would  I  hid  him  look 
on  the  ocean  widely  loaded  with  our  merchandise,  and 
proudly  ranged  by  our  navy?  or  on  the  land  where  it  is 
girdled  by  roads,  and  scored  by  canals,  and  burthened  with 
the  produce  of  our  industry  and  ingenuity  ? — would  I  bid 
him  look  on  these  things  as  the  springs  of  our  prosperity  ? 

Indeed.  I  would  not.  Nor  would  I  show  him  our  colleges 
and  literary  institutions ;  for  he  can  see  nobler  ones  else- 
where. I  would  pass  all  these  by,  and  would  lead  him  out 
by  some  winding  highway  among  the  hills  and  woods,  and, 
when  the  cultivated  spots  grew  small  and  infrequent,  and 
the  houses  became  few  and  scattered,  and  a  state  of  primi- 
tive nature  seemed  to  be  immediately  before  us,  I  would 
stop  in  some  sequestered  spot,  and,  directed  by  a  steady 
hum,  like  that  of  bees,  I  would  point  out  to  him  a  lowly 
building,  hardly  better  than  a  shed,  but  full  of  blooming 
happy  children,  collected  together  from  the  remote  and 
unseen  farm-houses,  conning  over  their  various  tasks,  or 
reading  with  a  voice  of  reverential  monotony,  a  portion  of 
the  Word  of  God ;  and  I  would  bid  him  note,  that,  even 
here,  in  the  midst  of  poverty  and  sterility,  was  a  specimen 
of  the  thousand  nurseries,  in  which  all  our  children  are  taught 
of  the  Lord,  and  formed,  some  to  legislate  for  the  land,  and 
all  to  understand  its  constitution  and  laws,  to  maintain  their 
unspotted  birthright,  and  contribute  to  the  great  aggregate 
of  the  intelligence,  the  morality,  the  power  and  peace  of  this 
mighty  commonwealth. 


188  NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON  CI. 

Importance  of  Science  to  a  Practical  Mechanic.— 
G.  B.  EMERSON. 

LET  us  imagine  for  a  moment  the  condition  of  an  indi- 
vidual, who  has  not  advanced  beyond  the  merest  elements 
of  knowledge,  who  understands  nothing  of  the  principles 
even  of  his  own  art,  and  inquire  what  change  will  be 
wrought  in  his  feelings,  his  hopes,  and  happiness,  in  all 
that  makes  up  the  character,  by  the  gradual  inpouring  of 
knowledge. 

He  has  now  the  capacity  of  thought,  but  it  is  a  barren 
faculty,  never  nourished  by  the  food  of  the  mind,  and  never 
rising  above  the  poor  objects  of  sense.  Labour  and  rest,  the 
hope  of  mere  animal  enjoyment,  or  the  fear  of  want,  the  care 
of  providing  covering  and  food,  make  up  the  whole  sum  of 
his  existence.  Such  a  man  may  be  industrious,  but  he  can- 
not love  labour,  for  it  is  not  relieved  by  the  excitement  of 
improving  or  changing  the  processes  of  his  art,  nor  cheered 
by  the  hope  of  a  better  condition. 

When  released  from  labour  he  does  not  rejoice  ;  for  mere 
idleness  is  not  enjoyment,  and  he  has  no  book,  no  lesson 
of  science,  no  play  of  the  mind,  no  interesting  pursuit,  to 
give  a  zest  to  the  hour  of  leisure.  Home  has  few  charms 
for  him  ;  he  has  little  taste  for  the  quiet,  the  social  converse, 
and  exchange  of  feeling  and  thought,  the  innocent  enjoy- 
ments, that  ought  to  dwell  there.  Society  has  little  to  in- 
terest him  ;  for  he  has  no  sympathy  for  the  pleasures  or  pur- 
suits, the  cares  or  troubles  of  others,  to  whom  he  cannot  feel 
nor  perceive  his  bonds  of  relationship. 

All  of  life  is  but  a  poor  boon  for  such  a  man  ;  and  happy 
for  himself  and  for  mankind,  if  the  few  ties  that  hold  him  to 
this  negative  existence  be  not  broken.  Happy  for  him  if 
that  best  and  surest  friend  of  man,  that  messenger  of  good 
news  from  heaven  to  the  poorest  wretch  on  earth,  Religion, 
bringing  the  fear  of  God,  appear  to  save  him.  Without  her 
to  support,  should  temptation  assail  him,  what  an  easy  victim 
would  he  fall  to  vice  or  crime  !  How  little  would  be  neces- 
sary to  overturn  his  ill-balanced  principles,  and  leave  him 
grovelling  in  intemperance,  or  send  him  abroad  on  the  ocean 
or  the  highway,  an  enemy  to  himself  and  his  kind  ! 

But,  let  the  light  of  science  fail  upon  that  man ;  open  to 


NATIONAL  READER.  1S9 

him  the  fountain  of  knowledge.  A  few  principles  of  phi- 
losophy enter  his  mind,  and  awaken  the  dormant  power  of 
thought.  He  begins  to  look  upon  his  art  with  an  altered 
eye.  It  ceases  to  be  a  dark  mechanical  process,  which  he 
cannot  understand  ;  he  regards  it  as  an  object  of  inquiry,  and 
begins  to  penetrate  the  reasons,  and  acquire  a  new  mastery 
over  his  own  instruments. 

He  finds  other  and  better  modes  of  doing  what  he  had 
done  before,  blindly  and  without  interest,  a  thousand  times. 
He  learns  to  profit  by  the  experience  of  others,  and  ventures 
upon  untried  paths.  Difficulties,  which  before  would  have 
stopped  him  at  the  outset,  receive  a  ready  solution  from  some 
luminous  principle  of  science. 

He  gains  new  knowledge  and  new  skill,  and  can  improve 
the  quality  of  his  manufacture,  while  he  shortens  the  pro- 
cess and  diminishes  his  own  labour.  Then  labour  becomes 
sweet  to  him  ;  it  is  accompanied  by  the  consciousness  of 
increasing  power ;  it  is  leading  him  forward  to  a  higher 
place  among  his  fellow  men.  Relaxation,  too,  is  sweet  to 
him,  as  it  enables  him  to  add  to  his  intellectual  stores,  and 
to  mature,  by  undisturbed  meditation,  the  plans  and  concep- 
tions of  the  hour  of  labour. 

His  home  has  acquired  a  new  charm ;  for  he  is  become  a 
man  of  thought,  and  feels  and  enjoys  the  peace  arid  seclu- 
sion of  that  sacred  retreat ;  and  he  carries  thither  the  honest 
complacency,  which  is  the  companion  of  well-earned  success. 
There,  too,  bright  visions  of  the  future  sphere  open  upon 
him,  and  excite  a  kindly  feeling  towards  those  who  are  to 
share  in  his  prosperity. 

Thus  his  mind  and  heart  expand  together.  He  has  be- 
come an  intelligent  being,  and,  while  he  has  learned  to 
esteem  himself,  he  has  also  learned  to  live  no  longer  for 
himself  alone.  Society  opens  like  a  new  world  to  him  ;  he 
looks  upon  his  fellow  creatures  with  interest  and  sympathy, 
and  feels  that  he  has  a  place  in  their  affections  and  respect. 
Temptations  assail  him  in  vain.  He  is  armed  by  high  and 
pure  thoughts.  He  takes  a  wider  view  of  his  relations  with 
the  beings  about  and  above  him.  He  welcomes  every  gene- 
rous virtue  that  adorns  and  dignifies  the  human  character. 
He  delights  in  the  exercise  of  reason.  He  glories  in  the 
consciousness  and  the  hope  of  immortality. 


190  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  OIL 

Story  of  Rabli  Ak'ila. — HURWITZ'S  HEBREW  TALES. 

COMPELLED,  by  violent  persecution,  to  quit  his  native  land, 
Rabbi  Akiba  wandered  over  barren  wastes  and  dreary  de- 
serts. His  whole  equipage  consisted  of  a  lamp,  which  he 
used  to  light  at  night,  in  order  to  study  the  law;  a  cock, 
which  served  him  instead  cf  a  watch,  to  announce  to  him 
the  rising  dawn ;  and  an  ass,  on  which  he  rode. 

The  sun  was  gradually  sinking  behind  the  horizon, 
night  was  fast  approaching,  and  the  poor  wanderer  knew 
not  where  to  shelter  his  head,  or  where  to  rest  his  weary 
limbs.  Fatigued,  and  almost  exhausted,  he  came  at  last 
near  a  village.  He  was  glad  to  find  it  inhabited,  thinking, 
where  human  beings  dwelt,  there  dwelt,  also,  humanity  and 
compassion. 

But  he  was  mistaken.  He  asked  for  a  night's  lodging.  It 
was  refused.  Not  one  of  the  inhospitable  inhabitants  would 
accommodate  him.  He  was,  therefore,  obliged  to  seek  shel- 
ter in  a  neighbouring  wood.  "  It  is  hard,  very  hard,"  said 
he,  "not  to  find  a  hospitable  roof  to  protect  me  against  the 
inclemency  of  the  weather;  but  God  is  just,  and  whatever 
he  does  is  for  the  best." 

He  seated  himself  beneath  a  tree,  lighted  his  lamp,  and 
began  to  read  the  law.  He  had  scarcely  read  a  chapter, 
when  a  violent  storm  extinguished  the  light.  "What!"  ex- 
claimed he,  "  must  I  not  be  permitted  even  to  pursue  my 
favorite  study!  But  God  is  just,  and  whatever  he  does  is 
for  the  best." 

He  stretched  himself  on  the  earth,  willing,  if  possible,  to 
have  a  few  hours'  sleep.  He  had  hardly  closed  his  eyes, 
when  a  fierce  wolf  came  and  killed  the  cock.  "  What  new 
misfortune  is  this!"  ejaculated  the  astonished  Akiba.  "My 
vigilant  companion  is  gone  !  Who,  then,  will  henceforth 
awaken  me  to  the  study  of  the  law  ?  But  God  is  just ;  he 
knows  what  is  good  for  us  poor  mortals." 

Scarcely  had  he  finished  the  sentence,  when  a  terrible  lion 
came  and*  devoured  the  ass.  "What  is  to  be  done  now?" 
exclaimed  the  lonely  wanderer.  "My  lamp  and  my  cock 
are  gone — my  poor  ass,  too,  is  gone — all  is  gone !  But, 
praised  be  the  Lord,  whatever  he  does  is  for  the  best." 
He  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and,  early  in  the  morning,  went 


NATIONAL  READER.  191 

to  the  village  to  see  whether  he  could  procure  a  horse,  or 
any  other  beast  of  burden,  to  enable  him  to  pursue  his  jour- 
ney. But  what  was  his  surprise,  not  to  find  a  single  indi- 
vidual alive ! 

It  appears,  that  a  band  of  robbers  had  entered  the  village 
during  the  night,  killed  its  inhabitants,  and  plundered  their 
houses.  As  soon  as  Akiba  had  sufficiently  recovered  from 
the  amazement,  into  which  this  wonderful  occurrence  had 
thrown  him,-  he  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  exclaimed,  "  Thou 
great  God,  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  arid  Jacob,  now  I 
know,  by  experience,  that  poor  mortal  men  are  short-sighted 
and  blind ;  often  considering  as  evils,  what  was  intended  for 
their  preservation !  But  thou,  alone,  art  just,  and  kind,  and 
merciful. 

"Had  not  the  hard-hearted  people  driven  me,  by  their 
inhospitality,  from  the  village,  I  should  assuredly  have  shar- 
ed their  fate.  Had  not  the  wind  extinguished  my  lamp,  the 
robbers  would  have  been  drawn  to  the  spot,  and  have  mur- 
dered me.  I  perceive,  also,  that  it  was  thy  mercy  which 
deprived  me  of  my  companions,  that  they  might  not,  by 
their  noise,  give  notice  to  the  banditti  where  I  was.  Praised, 
then,  be  thy  name  for  ever  and  ever!" 


LESSON  CHI. 

Alice  Fell. — WORDSWORTH. 

THE  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career, — 

For  threatening  clouds  the  moon  had  drowned,- 

When  suddenly  I  seemed  to  hear 
A  moan,  a  lamentable  sound. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways 

I  heard  the  sound,  and  more  and  more : 

It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise, 
And  still  I  heard  it,  as  before. 

At  length,  I  to  the  boy  called  our : 

He  stopped  his  horses  at  the  word , 
But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout, 

Nor  ought  else  like  it,  could  be  heard 


192  NATIONAL  HEADER. 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampered  through  the  rain ; 

And  soon  I  heard,  upon  the  blast, 

The  voice,  and  bade^  him  halt  again. 

Said  I,  alighting  on  the  ground, 

"What  can  it  be,  this  piteous  moan  ?" 

And  there  a  little  girl  I  found, 
Sitting  behind  the  chaise  alone. 

"My  cloak!"  the  word  was  last  and  first, 

And  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept, 
As  if  her  very  heart  would  burst ; 

And  down  from  off  the  chaise  she  leapt. 

"What  ails  you,  child?"' She  sobbed,  "Look  here!" 

I  saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, — 
A  weather-beaten  rag  as  e'er 

From  any  garden  scare-crow  dangled. 

'Twas  twisted  betwixt  nave  and  spoke : 
Her  help  she  lent,  and,  with  good  heed, 

Together  we  released  the  cloak, — 
A  wretched,  wretched  rag,  indeed! 

"And  whither  are  you  going,  child, 

To-night,  along  these  lonesome  ways  ?" 

"  To  Durham,"  answered  she,  half  wild-: — 
"Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise." 

She  sat  like  one  past  all  relief; 

Sob  after  sob  she  forth  did  send 
In  wretchedness,  as  if  her  grief 

Could  never,  never,  have  an  end. 

"  My  child,  in  Durham  do  you  dwell  ?" 
She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 

And  said,  "My  name  is  Alice  Fell : 
I'm  fatherless  and  motherless. 

"And  I  to  Durham,  sir,  belong." 

And  then,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 

Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew-  strong ; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak. 
*  Prvn.  bad. 


NATIONAL  READER.  103 


The  chaise  drove  on  ;  our  journey's  end 
rWas  nigh  ;  and,  sitting  by  my  side, 

A.S  if  she'd  lost  her  only  friend, 
She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

Up  to  the  tavern-door  we  post: — 
Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I  told ; 

And  I  gave  money  to  the  host, 
To  buy  a  new  cloak  for  the  old. 

"  And  let  it  be  of  duffil  gray, 

As  warm  a  cloak  as  man  can  sell!" 

Proud  creature  was  she,  the  next  day, 
The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell. 


LESSON   CIV. 

To  the  Molian  Harp. — EUROPEAN  MAGAZINE. 

HARP  of  the  Zephyr,  whose  least  breath,  o'er 
Thy  tender  string  moving,  is  felt  by  thee ; — 

Harp  of  the  whirlwind,  whose  fearfullest  roar 
Can  arouse  thee  to  nought  but  harmony ; — 

The  leaf  that  curls  upon  youth's  warm  hand, 
Hath  not  a  more  sensitive  soul  than  thou ; 

Yet  the  spirit  that's  in  thee,  unharmed,  can  withstand 
The  blast  that  shivers  the  stout  oak  bough. 

When  thankless  flowers  in  silence  bend, 

Thou  hailest  the  freshness  of  heaven  with  song; 

When  forests  the  air  with  their  howlings  rend, 
Thou  soothest  the  storm  as  it  raves  along. 

Yes :  thine  is  the  magic  of  Friendship's  bower, — 

That  holiest  temple  of  all  below  : — 
Thou  hast  accents  of  bliss  for  the  calmest  hour, 

But  a  heavenlier  note  for  the  season  of  wo. 

Harp  of  the  breeze,  whether  gentle  or  strong, 
When  shall  I  feel  thv  enchantment  again  ? 
17 


194  NATIONAL  READER. 

Hark!  hark! — even  the  swell  of  my  own  wild  song 
Hath  awakened  a  mild,  responsive  strain. 

It  is  not  an  echo  :  'tis  far  too  sweet 

To  be  born  of  a  lay  so  rude  as  mine : 
But,  oh !  when  terror  and  softness  meet, 

How  pure  are  the  hues  of  the  wreath  they  twine! 

_  Thus  the  breath  of  my  rapture  hath  swept  thy  chords, 
%  And  filled  them  with  music,  alas  !  not  its  own, 
Whose  melody  tells  but  how  much  my  words, 
Though  admiring,  have  wronged  that  celestial  tone. 

I  hear  it, — I  hear  it, — now  fitfully  swelling, 
Like  a  chorus  of  seraphim  earthward  hying ; 

And  now, — as  in  search  of  a  loftier  dwelling,  — 
The  voices  away,  one  by  one,  are  dying. 

Heaven's  own  harp!  save  angel  fingers, 

None  should  dare  open  thy  mystic  treasures. 

Farewell !  for  each  note  on  mine  ear  still  lingers, 
And  mine  may  not  mingle  with  thy  blest  measures 


LESSON  CV. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.* — C.  WOLFE. 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moon -beam's  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern,  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet,  nor  in  shroud,  we  bound  him; 
But  he  lay,  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

• 
*  Who  fell  in  the  battle  of  Corunna,  in  Spain,  1808 


NATIONAL  READER.  195 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  would  be  rioting  over  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  nothing  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  BriUm  has  laid  him. 

'I  , 
But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring ; 
And  we  heard,  by  the  distant  random  gun, 

That  the  foe  was  suddenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 


LESSON  CVI. 

War  contrary  to  the  Courses  of  Nature,  and.  the  Spirit  of 
the  Gospel. — MELLEN. 

OH  !  how  shall  man  his  crime  extenuate  ! 
What  sees  he  in  this  brave  o'erarching  sphere, 
The  rich  domain  of  nature,  that  will  hold 
A  moment's  friendship  with  his  cheerless  way  ! 
He  looks  upon  the  wide  and  glowing  earth, 
And  hears  the  hum  of  bees,  and  sees  its  bloom 
Rolling  in  all  its  luxury  for  him. 
He  sees  the  trees  wave  in  the  peaceful  sky, 
And  dally  with  the  breezes  as  they  pass. 
He  sees  the  golden  harvest  stoop  for  him, 
And  feels  a  quietness  on  all  the  hills. 
He  looks  upon  the  seasons,  as  they  come, 
In  beautiful  succession,  from  the  heavens, 
With  bud  and  blossoming,  and  fruits,  and  snows. 


196  NATIONAL  READER. 

There  is  no  war  among  them ;  they  pass  on, 
Light  beaming  from  their  footsteps  as  they  go, 
And,  with  the  cheerful  voice  of  sympathy, 
They  give  a  melody  to  all  the  earth, 
Each  calling  to  the  other  through  the  year ! 
He  looks  upon  the  firmament,  at  night : 
There  are  a  thousand  lustres  hanging  there, 
Mocking  the  splendors  of  Golconda  :  there 
He  sees  the  glorious  company  of  stars, 
Journeying  in  peace  and  beauty  through  the  deep, 
Shining  in  praise  forever  !     They  look  down, 
Each  like  a  bright  and  calm  Intelligence, 
Above  a  sphere  they  all  compassionate. 
There  is  no  war  among  these  sparkling  hosts  : 
They  go  in  silence  through  the  great  profound, 
Each  on  its  way  of  glory ;  they  proclaim 
The  order  and  magnificence  of  Him, 
Who  bade  them  roll  in  peace  around  his  throne. 

Oh !  when  the  planet  shone  o'er  Bethlehem, 
And  light  came  round  the  shepherds  on  the  hills, 
And  wise  men  rose  in  wonder  from  their  dreams, 
There  came  a  voice  sublime  upon  the  winds, 
Proclaiming  Peace  above  a  prostrate  world  ! 
The  morning  stars  sang  Peace  :  the  sons  of  God 
Struck  all  their  heavenly  lyres  again  ;  and  Peace 
Died  in  symphonious  murrrturs  round  the  babe. 
Thus  broke  Salvation's  morning.     But  the  day 
Has  heard  new  sounds ;  and,  dissonant  and  dire, 
The  mingled  tumult  swelled  the  coming  storm, 
Darkening  its  path  with  black,  portentous  front, 
Until  it  burst  in  havoc  and  in  war ! 
Oh  !  may  the  fearful  eventide  of  time, 
Find  man  upon  the  dust  in  penitence, 
In  the  strong  brotherhood  of  Peace  and  prayer. 


LESSON  CVII. 

Brief  Account  of  the  first  Settlers  of  New  England  ;  their  de- 
parture from  Europe;  and  their  landing  at  Plymouth,  Mass. 
22d  Dec.  1620. — Abridged  from  ROBERTSON  and  NEAL. 

ROBERT  BROWN,  a  popular  preacher  in  high  estimation 
among  the    Puritans  of  England,  in  the  reign  of  Queen 


NATIONAL  READER.  197 

Elizabeth,  maintained  that  a  society  of  Christians,  uniting 
together  to  worship  God,  constituted  a  church,  possessed  of 
complete  jurisdiction  in  the  conduct  of  its  own  affairs,  inde- 
pendent of  any  other  society,  and  accountable  to  no  supe- 
rior : — that  the  priesthood  neither  was  a  distinct  order  in  the 
church,  nor  conferred  an  indelible  character ;  but  that  every 
man,  qualified  to  teach,  might  be  set  apart  for  that  office  by 
the  election  of  the  brethren,  and  by  imposition  of  their  hands ; 
and  that,  in  like  manner,  by  their  authority,  he  might  be  dis- 
charged from  that  function,  and  reduced  to  the  rank  of  a 
private  Christian. 

Those  who  adopted  this  democratical  form  of  government, 
which  abolished  ail  distinction  of  ranks  in  the  church,  and 
conferred  an  equal  portion  of  power  on  each  individual,  were, 
from  the  founder  of  the  sect,  denominated  Brownists :  and, 
as  their  te'nets  were  more  hostile  to  the  established  religion 
than  those  of  other  separatists,  the  fiercest  storm  of  persecu- 
tion fell  upon  their  heads.  Many  of  them  were  fined  or 
imprisoned,  and  some  were  put  to  death. 

Still,  the  sect  not  only  subsisted,  but  continued  to  spread. 
But,  as  all  their  motions  were  carefully  watched,  both  by  the 
ecclesiastical  and  civil  courts,  which,  as  often  as  they  were 
detected,  punished  them  with  the  utmost  rigour,  a  body  of 
them,  weary  of  living  in  a  state  of  continual  danger  and 
alarm,  fled  to  Holland,  and  settled  in  Leyden,  under  the  care 
of  Mr.  John  Robinson  their  pastor. 

There  they  resided  for  several  years,  unmolested  and  ob- 
scure. But,  many  of  their  aged  members  dying,  and  some 
of  the  younger  marrying  into  Dutch  families,  while  their 
church  received  no  increase,  either  by  recruits  from  England, 
or  by  proselytes  gained  in  the  country,  they  began  to  be 
afraid,  that  all  their  high  attainments  in  spiritual  knowledge 
would  be  lost,  and  that  that  perfect  fabric  of  policy,  which 
they  had  erected,  would  be  dissolved,  and  consigned  to  obli- 
vion, if  they  remained  longer  in  a  strange  land. 

At  length,  after  several  solemn  addresses  to  Heaven,  the 
younger  part  of  the  congregation  resolved  to  remove  into 
some  part  of  America ,  under  the  protection  of  the  king  of 
England,  where  they  might  enjoy  the  liberty  of  their  con- 
sciences, and  be  capable  of  encouraging  their  friends  and 
countrymen  to  follow  them. 

Accordingly,  they  sent  over  agents  into  England,  who, 
having  obtained  a  patent  from  the  crown,  agreed  with  seve- 
ral merchants  to  become  adventurers  in  the  undertaking.  Se- 
17* 


198  NATIONAL  READER. 

veral  of  Mr.  Robinson's  congregation  sold  their  estates,  and 
made  a  common  bank,  with  which  they  purchased  a  small 
ship  of  sixty  tons,^  and  hired  another  of  one  hundred  and 
eighty,  t 

The  agents  sailed  into  Holland  with  their  own  ship,  to 
take  in  as  many  of  the  congregation  as  were  willing  to  em- 
bark) wrhi3e  the  other  vessel  was  freighting  with  all  necessa- 
ries for  the  new  plantation.  All  things  being  ready,  Mr. 
Robinson  observed  a  day  of  fasting  and  prayer  with  his  con- 
gregation, and  took  his  leave  of  the  adventurers  with  the 
following  truly  generous  and  Christian  exhortation : 

"  Brethren, — We  are  now  quickly  to  part  from  one  ano- 
ther, and  whether  I  may  ever  live  to  see  your  faces  on  earth 
any  more,  the  God  of  heaven  only  knows  ;  but,  \vhether  the 
Lord  has  appointed  that  or  no,  I  charge  you,  before  God  and 
his  blessed  angels,  that  you  follow  me  no  farther  than  you 
have  seen  me  follow  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ. 

"  If  God  reveal  any  thing  to  you,  by  any  other  instrument 
of  his,  be  as  ready  to  receive  it  as  ever  you  were  to  receive 
any  truth  by  my  ministry ;  for  I  am  verily  persuaded,  the 
Lord  has  more  truth  yet  to  break  forth  out  of  his  holy  word. 
For  my  part,  I  cannot  sufficiently  bewail  the  condition  of 
the  reformed  churches,  who  are  come  to  a  period  in  religion, 
and  will  go  at  present  no  farther  than  the  instruments  of 
their  reformation.  The  Lutherans  cannot  be  drawn  to  go 
beyond  what  Luther  saw  :  whatever  part  of  his  will  our  God 
has  revealed  to  Calvin,  they  w^ill  rather  die  than  embrace  it ; 
and  the  Calvinists,  you  see,  stick  fast  where  they  were  left 
by  that  great  man  of  God,  who  yet  saw  not  all  things. 

"This  is  a  misery  much  to  be  lamented ;  for,  though  they 
were  burning  and  shining  lights  in  their  times,  yet  they  pe- 
netrated not  into  the  whole  counsel  of  God,  but,  were  they 
now  living,  would  be  as  willing  to  embrace  further  light  as 
that  which  they  first  received.  I  beseech  you  remember,  it 
is  an  article  of  your  church  covenant,  that  you  be  ready  to 
receive  whatever  truth  shall  be  made  known  to  you  from  the, 
written  word  of  God.  Remember  that,  and  every  other 
article  of  your  sacred  covenant.  But  I  must  herewithal  ex- 
hort you  to  take  heed  what  you  receive  as  truth  ;  examine  it, 
consider  it,  and  compare  it  with  other  scriptures  of  truth, 
before  you  receive  it  j  for  it  is  not  possible  the  Christian 

*  The  Speedwell.  t  The  May-Flower. 


NATIONAL  READER.  199 

World  should  come  so  lately  out  of  such  thick  antichristian 
darkness,  and  that  perfection  of  knowledge  should  break 
forth  at  once. 

"I  must  also  advise  you  to  abandon,  avoid,  and  shake  ofF 
the  name  of  Brownists;  it  is  a  mere  nick-name,  and  a  brand 
for  the  making  of  religion,  and  the  professors  of  it,  odious  to 
the  Christian  world." 

On  the  1st  of  July,  1620,  the  adventurers  went  from  Ley- 
den  to  Delfthaven,  whither  Mr.  Robinson  and  the  ancients 
of  his  congregation  accompanied  them ;  they  continued  to- 
gether all  night ;  and  next  morning,  after  mutual  embraces, 
Mr.  Robinson  kneeled  down  on  the  sea-shore,  and,  with  a 
fervent  prayer,  committed  them  to  the  protection  and  bless- 
ing of  Heaven.  The  adventurers  were  about  one  hundred 
and  twenty,  who,  having  joined  their  other  ship,  sailed  for 
New  England,  August  5th ;  but,  one  of  their  vessels  proving 
leaky,  they  left  it,  and  embarked  in  one  vessel,  which  arriv- 
ed at  Cape  Cod,  November  9th,  1620. 

Sad  was  the  condition  of  these  poor  men,  who  had  the 
winter  before  them,  and  no  accommodations  at  hand  for  their 
entertainment :  most  of  them  were  in  a  weak  and  sickly  con- 
dition with  the  voyage  :  but  there  was  no  remedy  :  they 
therefore  manned  their  long  boat,  and,  having  coasted  the 
shore,  at  length  found  a  tolerable  harbour,  where  they  land- 
ed, with  a  part  of  their  effects,  on  the  22d  of  December,  and, 
on  the  25th,  began  to  build  a  storehouse,  and  some  small 
cottages,  to  preserve  them  from  the  weather. 

Their  company  was  divided  into  nineteen  families,  each 
family  having  an  allotment  of  land  for  lodging  and  gardens, 
in  proportion  to  the  number  of  persons  of  which  it  consisted ; 
and,  to  prevent  disputes,  the  situation  of  each  family  was 
decided  by  lot.  They  agreed  likewise  upon  some  laws  for 
their  civil  and  military  government,  and,  having  chosen  a 
governor,  they  called  the  place  of  their  settlement  by  the 
name  of  New  Plymouth. 

Inexpressible  were  the  hardships  these  new  planters  un- 
derwent, the  first  winter.  A  sad  mortality  raged  among 
them,  occasioned  by  the  fatigues  of  their  late  voyage,  by  the 
severity  of  the  weather,  and  their  want  of  necessaries.  The 
country  was  full  of  woods  and  thickets ;  their  poor  cottages 
could  not  keep  them  warm  ;  they  had  no  physician,  or 
wholesome  food ;  so  that,  within  two  or  three  months,  half 
their  company  was  dead,  and  of  them  who  remained  alive — 
about  fifty — not  above  six  or  seven  at  a  time  were  capa- 


200  NATIONAL  READER. 

ble  of  helping  the  rest.  But,  as  the  spring^came  on,  these  re- 
covered, and,  having  received  some  fresh  supplies  from  their 
friends  in  England,  they  maintained  their  station,  and  laid 
the  foundation  of  one  of  the  noblest  settlements  in  America, 
which  from  that  time  has  proved  an  asylum  for  the  Protest- 
ant Non-conformists  under  all  their  oppressions. 


LESSON  CVIII. 

Extract  from  an  Oration,  delivered  at  Plymouth,  Mass. 
Dec.  1824,  in  commemoration  of  the  landing  of  the  Pil- 
grims.— E.  EVERETT. 

IT  is  not  by  pompous  epithets  or  lively  antitheses,  that  the 
exploits  of  the  pilgrims  are  to  be  set  forth  by  their  children. 
We  can  only  do  this  worthily,  by  repeating  the  plain  tale  of 
their  sufferings,  by  dwelling  on  the  circumstances  under 
which  their  memorable  enterprise  was  executed,  and  by 
cherishing  and  uttering  that  spirit,  which  led  them  across 
the  ocean,  and  guided  them  to  the  spot  where  we  stand. — 
We  need  no  voice  of  artificial  rhetoric  to  celebrate  their 
names.  The  bleak  and  deathlike  desolation  of  nature  pro- 
claims, with  touching  eloquence,  the  fortitude  and  patience 
of  the  meek  adventurers.  On  the  bare  and  wintry  fields 
around  us,  their  exploits  are  written  in  characters,  which 
will  last,  and  tell  their  tale  to  posterity,  when  brass  and 
marble  have  crumbled  into  dust. 

The  occasion  which  has  called  us  together  is  certainly  one 
to  which  no  parallel  exists  in  the  history  of  the  world.  Other 
countries,  and  our  own  also,  have  their  national  festivals. 
They  commemorate  the  birthdays  of  their  illustrious  chil- 
dren ;  they  celebrate  the  foundation  of  important  institutions : 
momentous  events,  victories,  reformations,  revolutions,  awak- 
en, on  their  anniversaries,  the  grateful  and  patriotic  feelings 
of  posterity.  But  we  commemorate  the  birthday  of  all  New 
England  ;  the  foundation,  not  of  one  institution,  but  of  all 
the  institutions,  the  settlements,  the  establishments,  the  com- 
munities, the  societies,  the  improvements,  comprehended 
within  our  broad  and  happy  borders. 

Were  it  only  as  an  act  of  rare  adventure ;  were  it  a  trait 
in  foreign  or  ancient  history  ;  we  should  fix  upon  the 
achievement  of  our  fathers,  as  one  of  the  noblest  deeds  in 
the  annals  of  the  world.  Were  we  attracted  to  it  by  no 


NATIONAL  READER.  201 

other  principle  than  that  sympathy  we  feel  in  all  the  for- 
tunes of  our  race,  it  could  lose  nothing — it  must  gam — in 
the  contrast,  with  whatever  history  or  tradition  has  pre- 
served to  us  of  the  wanderings  and  settlements  of  the  tribes 
of  man.  A  continent  for  the  first  time  eiFectually  explored  ; 
a  vast  ocean  traversed  by  men,  women,  and  children,  volun- 
tarily exiling  themselves  from  the  fairest  regions  of  the  old 
world  ;  and  a  great  nation  grown  up,  in  the  space  of  two 
centuries,  on  the  foundations  so  perilously  laid  by  this  pious 
band : — point  me  to  the  record,  to  the  tradition,  nay,  to  the 
iiction,  of  any  thing,  that  can  enter  into  competition  with 
it.  It  is  the  language,  not  of  exaggeration,  but  of  truth  and 
soberness,  to  say,  that  there  is  nothing  in  the  accounts  of 
Phenician,  of  Grecian,  or  of  Roman  colonization,  that  can 
stand  in  the  comparison. 

What  new  importance,  then,  does  not  the  achievement 
acquire  to  our  minds,  when  we  consider  that  it  was  the  deed 
of  our  fathers  ;  that  this  grand  undertaking  was  accomplish- 
ed on  the  spot  where  we  dwell ;  that  the  mighty  region  they 
explored  is  our  native  land  ;  that  the  unrivalled  enterprise 
they  displayed  is  not  merely  a  fact  proposed  to  our  admira- 
tion, but  is  the  source  of  our  being  ;  that  their  cruel  hardships 
are  the  spring  of  our  prosperity ;  their  amazing  sufferings 
the  seed,  from  which  our  happiness  has  sprung  ;  that  their 
weary  banishment  gave  us  a  home  ;  that  to  their  separation 
from  every  thing  which  is  dear  and  pleasant  in  life,  we  owe 
all  the  comforts,  the  blessings,  the  privileges,  which  make 
our  lot  the  envy  of  mankind. 


LESSON  CIX. 

Second  Extract,  from  the  same. 

IT  was  not  enough  that  our  fathers  were  of  England :  the 
masters  of  Ireland,  and  the  lords  of  Hindostan,  are  of  Eng- 
land too.  But  our  fathers  were  Englishmen,  aggrieved,  per- 
secuted, and  banished.  It  is  a  principle,  amply  borne  out 
by  the  history  of  the  great  and  powerful  nations  of  the  earth, 
and  by  that  of  none  more  than  the  country  of  which  we 
speak,  that  the  best  fruits  and  choicest  action  of  the  com'- 
mendable  qualities  of  the  national  character,  are  to  be  found 
on  the  side  of  the  oppressed  few,  and  not  of  the  triumphant 


202  NATIONAL  READER. 

many.  As,  in  private  character,  adversity  is  olten  requisite 
to  give  a  proper  direction  and  temper  to  strong  qualities  ;  so 
the  noblest  traits  of  national  character,  even  under  the  freest 
and  most  independent  of  hereditary  governments,  are  com- 
monly to  be  sought  in  the  ranks  of  a  protesting  minority,  or 
of  a  dissenting  sect.  Never  was  this  truth  more  clearly  il- 
lustrated than  in  the  settlement  of  New  England. 

Could  a  common  calculation  of  policy  have  dictated  the 
terms  of  that  settlement,  no  doubt  our  foundations  would 
have  been  laid  beneath  the  royal  smile.  Convoys  and  na- 
vies would  have  been  solicited  to  waft  our  fathers  to  the 
coast ;  armies,  to  defend  the  infant  communities  ;  and  the 
flattering  patronage  of  princes  and  lords,  to  espouse  their  in- 
terests in  the  councils  of  the  mother  country.  Happy,  that 
our  fathers  enjoyed  no  such  patronage  ;  happy,  that  they 
fell  into  no  such  protecting  hands  ;  happy,  that  our  founda- 
tions were  silently  and  deeply  cast,  in  quiet  insignificance, 
beneath  a  charter  of  banishment,  persecution,  and  contempt ; 
so  that,  when  the  royal  arm  was  at  length  outstretched  against 
us,  instead  of  a  submissive  child,  tied  down  by  former  graces, 
it  found  a  youthful  giant  in  the  land,  born  amidst  hard- 
ships, and  nourished  on  the  rocks,  indebted  for  no  favours, 
and  owing  no  duty.  From  the  dark  portals  of  the  star  cham- 
ber, and  in  the  stem  text  of  the  acts  of  uniformity,  the  pil- 
grims received  a  commission  more  efficient  than  any  that 
ever  bore  the  royal  seal.  Their  banishment  to  Holland  was 
fortunate ;  the  decline  of  their  little  company  in  the  strange 
land  was  fortunate  ;  the  difficulties  which  they  experienced 
in  getting  the  royal  consent  to  banish  themselves  to  this 
wilderness  were  fortunate  ;  all  the  tears  and  heart-breakings 
of  that  ever-memorable  parting  at  Delfthaven  had  the  hap- 
piest influence  on  the  rising  destinies  of  New  England. 
All  this  purified  the  ranks  of  the  settlers.  These  rough 
touches  of  fortune  brushed  off  the  light,  uncertain,  selfish 
spirits.  They  made  it  a  grave,  solemn,  self-denying  expe- 
dition, and  required  of  those  who  engaged  in  it,  to  be  so 
too.  They  cast  a  broad  shadow  of  thought  and  seriousness 
over  the  cause,  and,  if  this  sometimes  deepened  into  melan- 
choly and  bitterness,  can  we  find  no  apology  for  such  a  hu- 
man weakness  ? 

It  is  sad,  indeed,  to  reflect  on  the  disasters,  which  the  little 
band  of  pilgrims  encountered ;— sad  to  see  a  portion  of 
them,  the  prey  of  unrelenting  cupidity,  treacherously  em- 
barked in  an  unsound,  unseaworthy  ship,  which  they  are 


NATIONAL  READER.  1203 

soon  obliged  to  abandon,  and  crowd  themselves  into  one 
vessel — one  hundred  persons,  besides  the  ship's  company, 
in  a  vessel  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  tons.  One  is  touched 
at  the  story  of  the  long,  cold,  and  weary  autumnal  passage ; 
of  the  landing  on  the  inhospitable  rocks  at  this  dismal  sea- 
son, where  they  are  deserted,  before  long,  by  the  ship  which 
had  brought  them,  and  which  seemed  their  only  hold  upon 
the  world  of  fellow  men, — a  prey  to  the  elements  and  to 
want,  and  fearfully  ignorant  of  the  numbers,  the  power,  and 
the  temper  of  the  savage  tribes,  that  filled  the  unexplored 
continent,  upon  whose  verge  they  had  ventured.  But  all  this 
wrought  together  for  good.  These  trials  of  wandering  and 
exile,  of  the  ocean,  the  winter,  the  wilderness,  and  the  savage 
foe,  were  the  final  assurance  of  success.  It  was  these  that 
put  far  away  from  our  fathers'  cause  all  patrician  softness, 
all  hereditary  claims  to  pre-eminence.  No  effeminate  nobility 
crowded  into  the  dark  and  austere  ranks  of  the  pilgrims ; 
no  Carr  nor  Villiers  would  lead  on  the  ill-provided  band 
of  despised  Puritans ;  no  well-endowed  clergy  were  on  the 
alert  to  quit  their  cathedrals,  and  set  up  a  pompous  hierarchy 
in  the  frozen  wilderness ;  no  craving  governors  were  anxious 
to  be  sent  over  to  our  cheerless  El  Dorados  of  ice  and  of 
snow.  No  ;  they  could  not  say  they  had  encouraged,  patron- 
ised, or  helped  the  pilgrims  :  their  own  cares,  their  own 
labours,  their  own  councils,  their  own  blood,  contrived  all, 
achieved  all,  bore  all,  sealed  all.  They  could  not  after- 
wards fairly  pretend  to  reap  where  they  had  not  strown : 
and,  as  our  fathers  reared  this  broad  and  solid  fabric  with 
pains  and  watchfulness,  unaided,  barely  tolerated,  it  did  not 
fall  when  the  favour,  which  had  always  been  withholden, 
was  changed  into  wrath ;  when  the  arm,  which  had  never 
supported,  was  raised  to  destroy. 

Methinks  I  see  it  now,  that  one  solitary,  adventurous  ves- 
sel, the  May-Flower  of  a  forlorn  hope,  freighted  with  the 
prospects  of  a  future  state,  and  bound  across  the  unknown 
sea.  I  behold  it  pursuing,  with  a  thousand  misgivings,  the 
uncertain,  the  tedious  voyage.  Suns  rise  and  set,  and  weeks 
and  months  pass,  and  winter  surprises  them  on  the  deep, 
but  brings  them  not  the  sight  of  the  wished-for  shore.  I 
see  them  now  scantily  supplied  with  provisions,  crowded 
almost  to  suffocation  in  their  ill-stored  prison,  delayed  by 
calms,  pursuing  a  circuitous  route  ; — and  now  driven  in  fury 
before  the  raging  tempest,  on  the  high  and  giddy  waves. 
The  awful  voice  of  the  storrn  howls  through  the  rigging; 


204  NATIONAL  READER. 

the  labouring  masts  seem  straining  from  their  base ;  the 
dismal  sound  of  the  pumps  is  heard  ;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it 
were,  madly,  from  billow  to  billow ;  the  ocean  breaks,  and 
settles  with  ingulfing  floods  over  the  floating  deck,  and 
beats,  with  deadening,  shivering  weight,  against  the  stag- 
gered vessel.  I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pur- 
suing their  all  but  desperate  undertaking,  and  landed,  at  last, 
after  a  five  months'  passage,  on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Ply- 
mouth,— weak  and  weary  from  the  voyage,  poorly  armed, 
scantily  provisioned,  depending  on  the  charity  of  their  ship- 
master for  a  draught  of  beer  on  board,  drinking  nothing  but 
water  on  shore, — without  shelter, — without  means, — sur- 
rounded by  hostile  tribes.  Shut  now  the  volume  of  history, 
and  tell  me,  on  any  principle  of  human  probability,  what 
shall  be  the  fate  of  this  handful  of  adventurers. — Tell  me, 
man  of  military  science,  in  how  many  months  were  they  all 
swept  off  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes,  enumerated  within  the 
early  limits  of  New  England  ?  Tell  me,  politician,  how 
long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on  which  your  conventions 
and  treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on  the  distant  coast? 
Student  of  history,  compare  for  me  the  baffled  projects,  the 
deserted  settlements,  the  abandoned  adventures,  of  other 
times,  and  find  the  parallel  of  this.  Was  it  the  winter's 
storm,  beating  upon  the  houseless  heads  of  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  was  it  hard  labour  and  spare  meals  ;  was  it  dis- 
ease ;  was  it  the  tomahawk ;  was  it  the  deep  malady  of  a 
blighted  hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken  heart, 
aching,  in  its  last  moments,  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved 
and  left,  beyond  the  sea ; — was  it  some,  or  all  of  these 
united,  that  hurried  this  forsaken  company  to  their  melan- 
choly fate  ? — And  is  it  possible  that  neither  of  these  causes, 
that  not  all  combined,  were  able  to  blast  this  bud  of  hope  ? — 
Is  it  possible,  that,  from  a  beginning  so  feeble,  so  frail,  so 
worthy,  not  so  much  of  admiration  as  of  pity,  there  has  gone 
forth  a  progress  so  steady,  a  growth  so  wonderful,  an  expan- 
sion so  ample,  a  reality  so  important,  a  promise,  yet  to  be 
fulfilled,  so  glorious ?  ^  *  *  ^ 

I  do  not  fear  that  we  shall  be  accused  of  extravagance  in 
the  enthusiasm  we  feel  at  a  train  of  events  of  such  aston- 
ishing magnitude,  novelty  and  consequence,  connected,  by 
associations  so  intimate,  with  the  day  we  now  hail,  with 
the  events  we  now  celebrate,  with  the  pilgrim  fathers  of 
New  England.  Victims  of  persecution  !  how  wide  an  em- 
pire acknowledges  the  sway  of  your  principles !  Apostles 


NATIONAL  READER.  205 

of  liberty !  what  millions  attest  the  authenticity  of  your 
mission  !  Meek  champions  of  truth  !  no  stain  of  private  in- 
terest, or  of  innocent  blood,  is  on  the  spotless  garments  of 
your  renown  !  The  great  continents  of  America  have  be- 
come, at  length,  the  theatre  of  your  achievements ;  the  At- 
lantic and  the  Pacific  the  highways  of  communication,  on 
which  your  principles,  your  institutions,  your  example,  are 
borne.  From  the  o'dest  abodes  of  civilization,  the  venerable 
plains  of  Greece,  to  the  scarcely  explored  range  of  the  Cor- 
dilleras, the  impulse  you  gave  at  length  is  felt.  While  other 
regions  revere  you  as  the  leaders  of  this  great  march  of  hu- 
manity, we  are  met,  on  this  joyful  day,  to  offer  to  your 
memories  our  tribute  of  filial  affection.  The  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  pilgrims,  we  have  assembled  on  the  spot 
where  you,  our  suffering  fathers,  set  foot  on  this  happy  shore. 
Happy,  indeed,  it  has  been  for  us.  O  that  you  could  have 
enjoyed  those  blessings,  which  you  prepared  for  your  chil- 
dren ! — that  our  comfortable  homes  could  have  shielded  you 
from  the  wintry  air;  our  abundant  harvests  have  supplied 
you  in  time  of  famine  ;  and  the  broad  shield  of  our  be- 
loved country  have  sheltered  you  from  the  visitations  of 
arbitrary  power  !  We  come,  in  our  prosperity,  to  remember 
your  trials ;  and  here,  on  the  spot  where  New  England  be- 
gan to  be,  we  come  to  learn,  of  our  pilgrim  fathers,  a  deep 
and  lasting  lesson  of  virtue,  enterprise,  patience,  zeal,  and 
faith  ! 


LESSON  CX. 

Claim  of  the  Pilgrims  to  the  Reverence  and  Gratitude  of 
their  Descendants. — O.  DEWEY. 

LET  it  not  be  forgotten,  at  least  by  us,  the  immediate  de- 
scendants of  the  Puritans — for  the  sake  of  our  gratitude  and 
our  virtue,  too,  let  it  not  be  forgotten — that,  when  the  weary 
pilgrim  traversed  this  bleak  coast,  his  step  was  lightened, 
and  his  heart  was  cheered,  by  the  thoughts  of  a  virtuous 
posterity ;  that,  when  our  fathers  touched  this  land,  they 
would  fain  have  consecrated  it  as  a  holy  land :  that,  when 
they  entered  it,  they  lifted  up  their  eyes  towards  heaven 
and  said,  "  Let  this  be  the  land  of  refuge  for  the  oppressed 
and  persecuted, — the  land  of  knowledge;  and,  O!  let  it  be 
18 


206  NATIONAL  READER. 

the  land  of  piety."  Let  the  descendants  of  the  pilgrims 
know,  that  if  their  fathers  wept,  it  was  not  for  themselves 
alone  ;  if  they  toiled,  they  toiled,  or — as  one  of  them  nobly 
said, — they  "  spent  their  time,  and  labours,  and  endeavours, 
for  the  benefit  of  them  who  should  come  after;"  that  if 
they  prayed,  they  prayed  not  for  themselves  alone,  but  for 
their  posterity.  And  little,  it  may  be,  do  we  know  of  the 
fervour  and  fortitude  of  that  prayer.  When  we  pray,  we 
kneel  on  pillows,  of  down,  beneath  our  own  comfortable 
dwellings  :  but  the  pilgrims  kneeled  on  the  frozen  and  flinty 
shore.  Our  prayers  ascend  within  the  walls  of  the  conse- 
crated temple :  but  the  mighty  wave  and  the  shapeless 
rock,  and  the  dark  forest,  were  their  walls :  and  no  shelter- 
ing dome  had  they,  but  the  rolling  clouds  of  winter,  and  the 
chill  and  bleak  face  of  heaven.  We  pray  in  peace,  and 
quietness,  and  safety :  but  their  anxious  and  wrestling  sup- 
plication went  up  amidst  the  stirring  of  the  elements,  and  the 
struggle  for  life ;  and  often  was  the  feeble  cry  of  the  defence- 
less band  broken  by  the  howling  of  wild  beasts,  and  the  war- 
whoop  of  wilder  savages. 

Yes,  our  lot  has  fallen  to  us  in  different  times  ;  and  now  it 
is  easy  for  us,  no  doubt,  calmly  to  survey  the  actions  of  those 
who  were  engaged  in  the  heat  of  the  contest;  and  we  have 
leisure  to  talk  at  large  about  ignorance,  and  bigotry,  and  su- 
perstition ;  and  we  can  take  the  seat  of  grave  wisdom,  arid 
philosophize  upon  the  past,  when  to  philosophize  is  all  that 
we  can  do.  Yes,  it  is  easy,  now  that  the  forest  is  cleared 
away,  and  we  bask  in  the  sunshine  which  they  have  opened 
upon  us,  through  the  deep  and  dark  foliage, — it  is  easy,  no 
doubt,  coolly  and.  nicely  to  mark  their  mistakes  and  errors  : — 
but  go  back  to  their  struggle  with  fear,  and  want,  and  dis- 
ease ;  go  to  the  fields  which  they  cultivated,  and  see  them  with 
the  felling  axe  in  one  hand,  and  the  weapon  of  defence  in  the 
other  ;  go  back  to  all  the  rude  dwellings  of  their  poverty  and 
trouble  : — but  you  cannot,  even  in  imagination,  you  cannot. 
No :  the  days  of  trial  and  suffering  have  been ;  but  it  is  not 
for  us  even  to  understand  what  they  were  !  This  little  only 
is  required  of  us — to  do  justice  to  the  virtues  which  we  have 
no  longer  any  opportunity  to  imitate. 

Nor,  in  urging  such  an  obligation  as  this,  has  it  often  been 
found  necessary  to  com'bat  the  prejudices  of  mankind.  On 
the  contrary,  there  has  been  a  universal  propensity  to  do  more 
than  justice,  to  do  honour,  to  the  achievements  of  past  times. 
There  never  was  a  people,  unless  we  are  the  exceptions  who 


NATIONAL  READER.  207 

were  not  inclined  to  receive  the  most  specious  story  that 
could  be  told  of  their  ancestry,  who  were  not  glad  to  have 
their  actions  set  forth  in  splendid  fable.  The  epic  histories 
of  Homer  and  Virgil,  all  fabulous  as  they  were,  were  receiv- 
ed with  uncontrollable  bursts  of  enthusiasm  by  their  respec- 
tive nations.  The  Israelites  sung  the  early  history  of  their 
wandering  tribes,  in  all  their  solemn  assemblies.  The 
memory  of  former  days  and  of  elder  deeds,  has  always,  and 
among  all  nations,  been  held  sacred.  The  rudest  people 
have  not  been  wanting  to  their  still  ruder  ancestry.  Immor- 
tal poems  have  preserved  their  memory ;  or  their  ballads  of 
olden  time  have  kept  alive,  with  their  simple  tale,  the  recol- 
lection of  ancient  heroism  and  suffering.  In  after  days 
History  takes  up  the  theme,  and, 

"  Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  down  with  it 
To  latest  times ;  and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 
Gives  bond,  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass, 
To  guard  them,  and  to  immortalize  her  trust." 

This  propensity  has  given  a  language  to  nature  itself. 
There  is  no  portion  of  the  earth  but  has  had  its  consecrated 
spots: — places,  the  bare  mention  of  which  is  enough  to 
awaken,  in  all  ages,  the  reverence  and  enthusiasm  of  man- 
kind. There  is  some  hill  or  mountain,  that  stands  as  a 
monument  of  ancient  deeds.  There  is  some  field  of  conflict, 
which  needs  no  memorial  but  a  name ;  or  some  rude  heap 
of  stones  at  Gilgal,  that  needs  no  inscription;  or  some  rod 
that  is  ever  budding  afresh  with  remembrance. 

And  is  our  own  land  destitute  of  every  scene  that  is  wor- 
thy to  be  remembered  ?  Among  all  these  rich  and  peaceful 
scenes  around  us,  there  is  not  a  plain,  but  it  has  been  the 
trenched  field  of  the  warrior :  there  is  not  a  hill,  but  it 
stands  as  a  monument.  And  the  structures  of  art,  that  shall 
rise  upon  them,  shall  only  point  them  out  to  other  times,  as 
holy.  But  harder  contests  than  those  of  blood  and  battle 
have  been  sustained  in  this  land.  And  the  Rock  of  Ply- 
mouth shall,  in  all  ages,  be  celebrated  as  the  Thermopylae 
of  this  new  world,  where  a  handful  of  men  held  conflict 
with  ghastly  famine,  and  sweeping  pestilence,  and  the  win- 
try storrn ;  held  conflict,  and  were  not  conquered.  And,  so 
long  as  centuries  shall  roll  over  this  happy  and  rising  na- 
tion, shall  wealth,  and  taste,  and  talent,  resort  to  that  hallow- 
ed spot,  to  pay  homage  to  the  elder  fathers  of  New  Eng- 
land.— Go,  children  of  the  pilgrims, — might  we  say  to  all 


208  NATIONAL  READER. 

the  inhabitants  of  the  land, — it  is  well  to  gather  around  that 
shrine  of  our  fathers'  virtues,  that  monument  of  their  toils 
and  sufferings,  which  the  chafing  billows  of  the  ocean  shall 
never  wear  away.  It  is  well  to  make  a  holy  pilgrimage  to 
that  sacred  spot.  It  is  well  that  gifted  orators  and  states- 
men should  proclaim  our  enthusiasm  and  our  gratitude  in 
the  listening  assembly.  But  with  what  striking  emphasis 
might  it  be  said,  to  those  who  make  this  pilgrimage  at  the 
present  day,  "  Ye  go,  not  as  your  fathers  came,  in  weariness 
and  sorrow — not  as  they  came,  amidst  poverty,  and  peril,  and 
sickness — not  through  the  solitary  glooms  and  howling 
storms  of  the  wilderness ;  but  ye  go,  through  rich  planta- 
tions and  happy  villages,  with  chariots,  and  horses,  and 
equipage,  and  state,  with  social  mirth  and  joyful  minstrelsy 
and  music ;  but,  ah !  remember  that  ye  are  gathering  to  the 
spot,  which  was  once  trodden  by  the  steps  of  the  houseless 
wanderer,  which  was  marked  with  the  pilgrim's  staff,  and 
watered  with  the  pilgrim's  tears."  =&  Sfc  =&  =fc 

The  claims  of  ancestry,  we  know,  are  commonly  held 
sacred,  in  proportion  as  its  date  is  removed  back  into  ages 
of  antiquity ;  in  proportion  to  the  number  of  successive 
generations  that  have  intervened ;  in  proportion  as  fiction 
and  romance  find  aid  in  the  darkness  of  some  remote  and 
unknown  period.  But,  though  the  character  of  our  fathers 
needs  no  such  aid,  yet  I  can  scarcely  conceive  any  thing 
more  romantic  even,  than  their  entrance  into  this  vast  do- 
main of  nature,  never  before  disturbed  by  the  footsteps  of 
civilized  man.  They  came  to  the  land  where  fifty  centuries 
had  held  their  reign,  with  no  pen  to  write  their  history. 
Silence,  which  no  occupation  of  civilized  life  had  broken, 
was  in  ail  its  borders,  and  had  been  from  the  creation. 
The  lofty  oak  had  grown  through  its  lingering  age,  and  de- 
cayed, and  perished,  without  name  or  record.  The  storm 
had  risen  and  roared  in  the  wilderness  ;  and  none  had  caught 
its  sublime  inspiration.  The  fountains  had  flowed  on ;  the 
mighty  river  had  poured  its  useless  waters  ;  the  cataract  had 
lifted  up  its  thunderings  to  the  march  of  time ;  and  no  eye 
had  seen  it,  but  that  of  the  wild  tenants  of  the  desert.  A  band 
of  fugitives  came  to  this  land  of-  barbarism,  with  no  patron- 
age, but  the  prayers  of  the  friends  they  had  left  behind 
them ;  with  no  wealth,  but  habits  of  industry ;  with  no 
power,  but  what  lay  in  firm  sinews  and  courageous  hearts ; 
and  with  these  they  turned  back  the  course  of  ages. 
Pilgrims  from  the  old  world,  they  became  inheritors  of  the 


NATIONAL  READER*  209 

new.  They  set  up  the  standard  of  Christianity ;  they  open- 
ed the  broad  pathways  of  knowledge ;  the  forest  melted 
away  before  them,  like  a  dark  vapour  of  the  morning ;  the 
voice  of  comfort,  the  din  of  business,  went  back  into  its 
murmuring  solitudes ;  the  wilderness  and  solitary  place 
were  glad  for  them ;  the  desert  rejoiced  and  blossomed  as 
the  rose.  We  might  almost  take  the  description  of  it  from 
the  language  of  prophecy.  The  lamb  lies  down  in  the  den 
of  the  wolf;  and  where  the  wild  beast  prowled,  is  now  the  graz- 
ing ox.  "  The  cow  and  the  bear  feed,  and  their  young  ones  lie 
down  together.  The  suckling  child  plays  on  the  hole  of  the 
asp,  and  the  weaned  child  puts  his  hand  on  the  adder's  den." 
Where  the  deep  \vood  spread  its  solitary  glooms,  and  the 
fierce  savage  laid  his  dark  and  deadly  ambush,  are  now  the 
sunny  hill-side,  and  the  waving  field,  and  the  flowery  plain ; 
and  the  unconscious  child  holds  his  gambols  on  the  ground 
that  has  been  trodden  with  weariness,  and  watered  with 
tears,  and  stained  with  the  blood  of  strife  and  slaughter. 

These  are  the  days,  these  are  the  men,  that  we  are  called 
upon  to  remember  and  to  honour.  But  it  is  not  enough 
to  remember  their  deeds :  we  are  bound  to  imitate  their 
virtues.  This  is  the  true,  the  peculiar  honour,  which  we 
are  bound  to  render  to  such  an  ancestry.  The  common 
measure  of  national  intelligence  and  virtue  is  no  rule  for  us. 
It  is  not  enough  for  us  to  be  as  wise  and  improved,  as  virtu- 
ous and  pious,  as  other  nations.  Providence,  in  giving  to 
us  an  origin  so  remarkable  and  signally  favoured,  demands 
of  us  a  proportionate  improvement.  We  are  in  our  infancy, 
it  is  true,  but.  our  existence  began  in  an  intellectual  maturity. 
Onr  fathers'  virtues  were  the  virtues  of  the  wilderness, — yet 
without  its  wildness ;  hardy,  and  vigorous,  and  severe, 
indeed, — but  not  rude,  nor  mean.  Let  us  beware  lest  we 
become  more  prosperous  than  they, — more  abundant  in 
luxuries,  and  refinements, — only  to  be  less  temperate,  upright, 
and  religious.  Let  us  beware  lest  the  stern  and  lofty  features 
of  primeval  rectitude  should  be  regarded  with  less  respect 
among  us.  Let  us  beware  lest  their  piety  should  fall  with 
the  oaks  of  their  forests  ;  lest  the  loosened  bow  of  early 
habits  and  opinions,  which  was  once  strung  in  the  wilder- 
ness, should  be  too  much  relaxed. 
IS* 


210  NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON  CXI. 

Song  of  the  Pilgrims. — UPIIAM. 
Written,  1823. 

THE  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 
And,  bounding  with  the  wave  and  wind, 
We  leave  Old  England's  shores  behind: — 
Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 
Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 
The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  wo, 
Till  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud, 
Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud ; 
Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 
From  that  shore  well  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be, 
Than  dwell  where  mind  cannot  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod 
Even  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep! 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep ! 

O,  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes ! 

Another  land,  and  other  skies ! 

Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view ! 

Adieu !  Old  England's  shores,  adieu  ! 
Here,  at  length,  our  feet  shall  rest, 
Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blest. 

As  long  as  yonder  firs^  shall  spread 
Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head,- 
As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand, 
Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land, — 

Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 

Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we'll  raise 
The  pae'an  loud  of  sacred  praise, 

*  Pron.  i?rz. 


NATIONAL  READER  211 

More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas ! 

Happier  lands  have  met  our  view ! 

England's  shores,  adieu !  adieu  ! 


LESSON  CXII. 
The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. — MRS.  HEM'ANS. 

Written,  1825. 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast ; 
And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 

Their  giant  branches  tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; — 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; — 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence,  and  in  fear : — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest,  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared  : — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band : 


212  NATIONAL  READER, 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 
Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas?  the  spoils  of  war? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, — 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found  - 

Freedom  to  worship  God! 


LESSON  CXIII. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers. — ORIGINAL. 

Written,  1824. 

THE  pilgrim  fathers — where  are  they? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore : 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  as  they  rolled  that  day, 

When  the  May-Flower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists,  that  wrapped  the  pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone ; — 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud, 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  pilgrim  exile — sainted  name ! — 
The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 


NATIONAL  READER.  213 

Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head; — 

But  the  pilgrim — where  is  he  ? 

The  pilgrim  fathers  are  at  rest : 

When  Summer's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
•  And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay,  where  the  May-Flower  lay, 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


LESSON  CXIV. 

Character  of  the  Puritan  Fathers  of  New  England. — 
GREENWOOD. 

ONE  of  the  most  prominent  features,  which  distinguished 
our  forefathers,  was  their  determined  resistance  to  oppres- 
sion. They  seemed  born  and  brought  up,  for  *lie  high  and 
special  purpose  of  showing  to  the  world,  that  the  civil  and 
religious  rights  of  man,  the  rights  of  self-government,  of  con- 
science and  independent  thought,  are  not  merely  things  to 
be  talked  of,  and  woven  into  theories,  but  to  be  adopted  with 
the  whole  strength  and  ardour  of  the  mind,  and  felt  in  the 
profoundest  recesses  of  the  heart,  and  carried  out  into  the 
general  life,  and  made  the  foundation  of  practical  usefulness, 
and  visible  beauty,  and  true  nobility. 

Liberty,  with  them,  was  an  object  of  too  serious  desire 
and  stern  resolve,  to  be  personified,  allegorized  and  enshrin- 


214  NATIONAL  READER. 

ed.  They  made  no  goddess  of  it,  as  the  ancients  did  ;  they 
had  no  time  nor  inclination  for  such  trifling ;  they  felt  that 
liberty  was  the  simple  birthright  of  every  human  creature ; 
they  called  it  so ;  they  claimed  it  as  such  ;  they  reverenced 
and  held  it  fast  as  the  unalienable  gift  of  the  Creator,  which 
was  not  to  be  surrendered  to  power,  nor  sold  for  wages. 

It  was  theirs,  as  men ;  without  it,  they  did  not  esteem 
themselves  men  ;  more  than  any  other  privilege  or  pos- 
session, it  was  essential  to  their  happiness,  for  it  was  essen- 
tial to  their  original  nature  ;  and  therefore  they  preferred  it 
above  wealth,  and  ease,  and  country ;  and,  that  they  might 
enjoy  and  exercise  it  fully,  they  forsook  houses,  and  lands, 
and  kindred,  their  homes,  their  native  soil,  and  their  fathers' 
graves. 

They  left  all  these ;  they  left  England,  which,  whatever 
it  might  have  been  called,  was  not  to  them  a  land  of  free- 
dom ;  they  launched  forth  on  the  pathless  ocean,  the  wide, 
fathomless  ocean,  soiled  not  by  the  earth  beneath,  and 
bounded,  all  round  and  above,  only  by  heaven  ;  and  it  seem- 
ed to  them  like  that  better  and  sublimer  freedom,  which  their 
country  knew  not,  but  of  which  they  had  the  conception  and 
image  in  their  hearts ;  and,  after  a  toilsome  and  painful 
voyage,  they  came  to  a  hard  and  wintry  coast,  unfruitful 
and  desolate,  but  unguarded  and  boundless  ;  its  calm  silence 
interrupted  not  the  ascent  of  their  prayers ;  it  had  no  eyes 
to  watch,  no  ears  to  hearken,  no  tongues  to  report  of  them ; 
here  again  there  was  an  answer  to  their  souls'  desire,  and 
they  were  satisfied,  and  gave  thanks ;  they  saw  that  they 
were  free,  and  the  desert  smiled. 

I  am  telling  an  old  tale ;  but  it  is  one  which  must  be  told, 
when  we  speak  of  those  men.  It  is  to  be  added,  that  they 
transmitted  their  principles  to  their  children,  and  that,  peo- 
pled by  such  a  race,  our  country  was  always  free.  So  long 
as  its  inhabitants  were  unmolested  by  the  mother  country 
in  the  exercise  of  their  important  rights,  they  submitted  to 
the  form  of  English  government ;  but  when  those  rights  were 
invaded,  they  spurned  even  the  form  away. 

This  act  was  the  revolution,  which  came  of  course,  and 
spontaneously,  and  had  nothing  in  it  of  the  wonderful  or  un- 
foreseen. The  wonder  would  have  been,  if  it  had  not  occurred. 
It  was  indeed  a  happy  and  glorious  event,  but  by  no  means 
unnatural ;  and  I  intend  no  slight  to  the  revered  actors  in 
the  revolution,  when  I  assert,  that  their  fathers  before  them 
were  as  free  as  they, — every  whit  as  free. 

The  principles  of  the   revolution  were  not  the  suddenly 


NATIONAL  READER.  215 

acquired  property  of  a  few  bosoms ;  they  were  abroad  in  the 
land  in  the  ages  before  ;  they  had  always  been  taught,  like 
the  truths  of  the  Bible ;  they  had  descended  from  father  to 
son,  down  from  those  primitive  days,  when  the  pilgrim, 
established  in  his  simple  dwelling,  and  seated  at  his  blazing 
fire,  piled  high  from  the  forest  which  shaded  his  door,  re- 
peated to  his  listening  children  the  story  of  his  wrongs  and 
his  resistance,  and  bade  them  rejoice,  though  the  wild  winds 
and  the  wild  beasts  were  howling  without,  that  they  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  great  men's  oppression  and  the  bishops' 
rage. 

Here  were  the  beginnings  of  the  revolution.  Every  set- 
tler's hearth  was  a  school  of  independence  ;  the  scholars 
were  apt,  and  the  lessons  sunk  deeply;  and  thus  it  came 
that  our  country  was  always  free ;  it  could  not  be  other  than 
free. 

As  deeply  seated  as  was  the  principle  of  liberty  and  resist- 
ance to  arbitrary  power,  in  the  breasts  of  the  Puritans*  it 
was  not  more  so  than  their  piety  and  sense  of  religious  obli- 
gation. They  were  emphatically  a  people,  whose  God  was 
the  Lord.  Their  form  of  government  was  as  strictly  theo- 
cratical,  if  direct  communication  be  excepted,  as  was  that  of 
the  Jews ;  insomuch  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  where 
there  was  any  civil  authority  among  them  entirely  distinct 
from  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction. 

Whenever  a  few  of  them  settled  a  town,  they  immediately 
gathered  themselves  into  a  church ;  and  their  elders  were 
magistrates,  and  their  code  of  laws  was  the  Pentateuch. 
These  were  forms,  it  is  true,  but  forms  which  faithfully  in- 
dicated principles  and  feelings;  for  no  people  could  have 
adopted  such  forms,  who  were  not  thoroughly  imbued  with 
the  spirit,  and  bent  on  the  practice,  of  religion. 

God  was  their  King  ;  arid  they  regarded  him  as  truly  and 
literally  so,  as  if  he  had  dwelt  in  a  visible  palace  in  the  midst 
of  their  state.  They  were  his  devoted,  resolute,  humble 
subjects ;  they  undertook  nothing  which  they  did  not  beg  of 
him  to  prosper ;  they  accomplished  nothing  without  render- 
ing to  him  the  praise ;  they  suffered  nothing  without  carry- 
ing up  their  sorrows  to  his  throne ;  they  ate^  nothing  which 
they  did  not  implore  him  to  bless. 

Their  piety  was  not  merely  external ;  it  was  sincere ;  it 
had  the  proof  of  a  good  tree,  in  bearing  good  fruit ;  it  pro- 
duced and  sustained  a  strict  morality.  Their  tenacious  pu- 
rity of  manners  and  speech  obtained  for  them,  in  the  mother 
*  Pron.  et. 


216  NATIONAL  READER. 

country,  their  name  of  Puritans  ;  which,  though  given  in 
derision,  was  as  honourable  a  one  as  was  ever  bestowed  by 
man  on  man. 

That  there  were  hypocrites  among  them,  is  not  to  be 
doubted ;  but  they  were  rare ;  the  men  who  voluntarily  ex- 
iled themselves  to  an  unknown  coast,  and  endured  there 
every  toil  and  hardship  for  conscience'  sake,  and  that  they 
might  serve  God  in  their  own  manner,  were  not  likely  to  set 
conscience  at  defiance,  and  make  the  service  of  God  a  mock- 
ery ;  they  were  not  likely  to  be,  neither  were  they,  hypo- 
crites. I  do  not  know  that  it  would  be  arrogating  too  much 
for  them  to  say,  that,  on  the  extended  surface  of  the  globe, 
there  was  not  a  single  community  of  men  to  be  compared 
with  them,  in  the  respects  of  deep  religious  impressions,  aad 
an  exact  performance  of  moral  duty. 


LESSON  CXV. 

The  same,  concluded. 

WHAT  I  would  especially  inculcate  is,  that,  estimating  as 
impartially  as  we  are  able  the  virtues  and  defects  of  our 
forefathers'  character,  we  shoald  endeavour  to  imitate  the 
first,  and  avoid  the  last. 

Were  they  tenderly  jealous  of  their  inborn  rights,  and  resolv- 
ed to  maintain  them,  in  spite  of  the  oppressor  ?  And  shall 
we  ever  be  insensible  to  their  value,  and  part  with  the  vigi- 
lance which  should  watch,  and  the  courage  which  should  de- 
fend them  ?  Rather  let  the  ashes  of  our  fathers,  which  have 
been  cold  so  long,  warm  and  quicken  in  their  graves,  and 
return  imbodied  to  the  surface,  and  drive  away  their  degene- 
rate sons  from  the  soil  which  their  toils  and  sufferings  pur- 
chased ! 

Rather  let  the  beasts  of  the  wilderness  come  back  to  a  wil- 
derness, and  couch  for  prey  in  our  desolate  gardens,  and 
bring  forth  their  young  in  our  marts,  and  howl  nightly  to 
the  moon,  amidst  the  grass-grown  ruins  of  our  prostrate 
cities !  Rather  let  the  red  sons  of  the  forest  reclaim  their 
pleasant  hunting  grounds,  and  rekindle  the  council  fires 
which  once  threw  their  glare  upon  the  eastern  water,  and 
roam  over  our  hills  and  plains,  without  crossing  a  single 
fcfatsk  of  the  white  man  ! 


NATIONAL  READER.  217 

I  am  no  advocate  for  war.  I  abominate  its  spirit  and  its 
cruelties.  But  to  me  there  appears  a  \vide  and  essential 
difference  between  resistance  and  aggression.  It  is  aggres- 
sion, it  is  the  love  of  arbitrary  domination,  it  is  the  insane 
thirst  for  what  the  world  has  too  long  and  too  indiscrimi- 
nately called  glory,  which  light  up  the  flames  of  war  and 
devastation.  • 

Without  aggression  on  the  one  side,  no  resistance  would 
he  roused  on  the  other,  and  there  would  be  no  war.  And  if 
all  aggression  was  met  by  determined  resistance,  then,  too, 
there  would  be  no  war;  for  the  spirit  of  aggression  would 
be  humbled  and  repressed.  I  would  that  it  Plight  be  the 
universal  principle  of  our  countrymen,  and  the  determina- 
tion of  our  rulers,  never  to  offer  the  slightest  injury,  never  to 
commit  the  least  outrage,  though  it  were  to  obtain  territory, 
or  fame,  or  any  selfish  advantage. 

In  this  respect  I  would  that  the  example  which  was  some- 
times set  by  our  forefathers,  might  be  altogether  forsaken. 
But  let  us  never  forsake  their  better  example  of  stern  resist- 
ance ;  let  us  cherish  and  perpetuate  their  lofty  sentiments 
of  freedom ;  let  us  tread  the  soil  which  they  planted  for  us 
as  free  as  they  did,  or  lie  down  at  once  beside  them. 

"  The  land  we  from  our  fathers  had  in  t-ru,.t 

We  to  our  children  will  transmit,  or  die. 

This  is  our  maxim,  this  our  piety, 

And  God  and  nature  say  that  it  is  just. 

That  which  we  -would  perform  In  arms,  we  must ! 

We  read  the  dictate  in  the  infant's  eye, 

In  the  wife's  smile,  and  in  the  placid  sky, 

And  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 

Of  them  that  were  before  us." 

Our  fathers  were  pious — eminently  so.  Let  us  forever 
venerate  and  imitate  this  part  of  their  character.  When 
the  children  of  the  pilgrims  forget  that  Being,  who  was  the 
pilgrim's  Guide  and  Deliverer;  when  the  descendants  of  the 
Puritans  cease  to  acknowledge,  and  obey,  and  love  that 
Being,  fur  \\hose  service  the  Puritans  forsook  all  that  men 
chiefly,  love,  enduring  scorn  and  reproach,  exile  and  poverty, 
and  finding  at  last  a  superabundant  reward;  when  the  sons 
of  a  religious  and  holy  ancestry  fail  away  from  its  high 
connn union,  and  join  themselves  to  the  assemblies  of  the 
profane; — they  have  stained  the  lustre  of  their  parentage; 
they  have  forfeited  the  dear  blowings  of  their  inheritance ; 
and  they  deserve  to  be  cast  out  from  this  fair  land  without 
19 


218  NATIONAL  READER. 

even  a  wilderness  for  their  refuge.  No  !  Let  us  still  keep 
the  ark  of  God  in  the  midst  of  us ;  let  us  adopt  the  prayer 
of  the  wise  monarch  of  Israel, — "  The  Lord  our  God  be  with 
us,  as  he  was  with  our  fathers ;  let  him  not  leave  us,  nor 
forsake  us  ;  that  he  may  incline  our  hearts  unto  him,  to  walk 
in  all  his  ways,  and  to  keep  his  commandments,  and  his 
statutes,  and  his  judgements,  which  he  commanded  our 
fathers.'* 

But  our  fathers  were  too  rigidly  austere.  It  may  be 
thought,  that,  even  granting  this  to  be  their  fault,  we  are  so 
rapidly  advancing  toward  an  opposite  extreme,  that  any  thing 
like  a  caution  against  it  is  out  of  season,  and  superfluous. 
And  yet  I  see  not  why  the  notice  of  every  fault  should  not 
be  accompanied  with  a  corresponding  caution. 

That  we  are  in  danger  of  falling  into  one  excess,  is  a  rea- 
son why  we  should  be  most  anxiously  on  our  guard  at  the 
place  of  exposure ;  but  it  is  no  reason  why  another  excess 
should  not  be  reprobated,  and  pointed  out  with  the  finger  of 
warning.  The  difficulty  is,  and  the  desire  and  effort  should 
be,  between  these,  as  well  as  all  other  extremes,  to  steer  an 
equal  course,  and  preserve  a  safe  medium. 

I  acknowledge  that  luxury,  and  the  blandishments  of  pros- 
perity and  wealth,  are  greatly  to  be  feared ;  and  if  our  soft- 
nesses;  and  indulgences,  and  foreign  fashions,  must,  inevita- 
bly, accomplish  our  seduction,  and  lead  us  away  from  the 
simplicity,  honesty,  sobriety,  purity,  and  manly  independence 
of  our  forefathers,  most  readily  and  fervently  would  I  ex- 
claim, Welcome  back  to  the  pure  old  times  of  the  Puritans  ! 
welcome  back  to  the  strict  observances  of  their  strictest  days ! 
welcome,  thrice  welcome,  to  all  their  severity,  all  their 
gloom  !  for  infinitely  better  would  be  hard  doctrines  and 
dark  brows,  Jewish  Sabbaths,  strait  garments,  formal  man- 
ners, and  a  harsh  guardianship,  than  dissoluteness  and  ef- 
feminacy ;  than  empty  pleasures  and  shameless  debauch- 
ery ;  than  lolling  ease,  and  pampered  pride,  and  fluttering 
vanity ;  than  unprincipled,  faithless,  corrupted  rulers,  and  a 
people  unworthy  of  a  more  exalted  government. 

But  is  it  necessary  that  we  must  be  either  gloomy  or  cor- 
rupt, either  formal  or  profane,  either  extravagant  in  strict- 
ness, or  extravagant  in  dissipation  and  levity  ?  Can  we  not 
so  order  our  habits,  and  so  fix  our  principles,  as  not  to  suf- 
fer the  luxuries  of  our  days  to  choke,  and  strangle,  with 
their  rankness,  the  simple  morality  of  our  fathers'  days,  nor 
permit  a  reverence  for  their  stiff  and  inappropriate  formal!- 


NATIONAL  READER.  219 

ties  and  austerities  to  overshadow  and  repress  our  innocent 
comforts  and  delights  ? 

Let  us  attempt,  at  least,  to  maintain  ourselves  in  so  desira- 
ble a  medium.  Let  us  endeavour  to  preserve  whatever  was 
excellent  in  the  manners  and  lives  of  the  Puritans,  while  we 
forsake  what  was  inconsistent  or  unreasonable  ;  and  then 
we  shall  hardly  fail  to  be  wiser  and  happier,  and  even  better 
than  they  were. 


LESSON  CXVI. 

Extract  from  the  Speech  of  W.  PITT,  Earl  of  Chatham,  in 
the  British  Parliament,  January,  1775. 

MY  lords — I  rise  with  astonishment  to  see  these  papers 
brought  to  your  table  at  so  late  a  period  of  this  business ; — 
papers,  to  tell  us  what?  Why,  what  all  the  world  knew 
before  ;  that  the  Americans,  irritated  by  repeated  injuries, 
and  stripped  of  their  inborn  rights  and  dearest  privileges, 
have  resisted,  and  entered  into  associations  for  the  preser- 
vation of  their  common  liberties. 

Had  the  early  situation  of  the  people  of  Boston  been  at- 
tended to,  things  would  not  have  come  to  this.  But  the 
infant  complaints  of  Boston  were  literally  treated  like  the 
capricious  squalls  of  a  child,  who,  it  was  said,  did  not  know 
whether  it  was  aggrieved  or  not.  But,  full  well  I  knew,  at 
that  time,  that  this  child,  if  not  redressed,  would  soon  as- 
sume the  courage  and  voice  of  a  man.  Full  well  I  knew, 
that  the  sons  of  ancestors,  born  under  the  same  free  consti- 
tution, and  once  breathing  the  same  liberal  air,  as  English- 
men; would  resist  upon  the  same  principles,  and  on  the  same 
occasions. 

What  has  government  done  ?  They  have  sent  an  armed 
force,  consisting  of  seventeen  thousand  men,  to  dragoon'  the 
Bostonians  into  what  is  called  their  duty ;  and,  so  far  from 
once  turning  their  eyes  to  the  impolicy  and  destructive  con- 
sequence of  this  scheme,  are  constantly  sending  out  more 
troops.  And  we  are  told,  in  the  language  of  menace,  that, 
if  seventeen  thousand  men  won't  do,  fifty  thousand  shall. 

It  is  true,  my  lords,  with  this  force,  they  may  ravage  the 
country,  waste  and  destroy  as  they  march;  but,  in  the  pro- 
gress of  fifteen  hundred  miles,  can  they  occupy  the  places 


220 


NATIONAL  READER. 


they  have  passed  ?  Will  not  a  country,  which  can  pioduce 
three  millions  of  people,  wronged  and  insulted  as  they  are, 
start  up,  like  hydras,  in  every  corner,  and  gather  fresh 
strength  from  fresh  opposition  ?  Nay,  what  dependence 
can  you  have  upon  the  soldiery,  the  unhappy  engines  of 
your  wrath  ?  They  are  Englishmen,  who  must  feel  for  the 
privileges,  of  Englishmen.  Do  you  think  that  these  men 
can  turn  their  arms  against  their  brethren?  Surely  not. 
A  victory  must  be  to  them  a  defeat ;  and  carnage,  a  sa- 
crifice. 

But  it  is  not  merely  three  millions  of  people,  the  pro- 
duce of  America,  wre  have  to  contend  with,  in  this  unnatu- 
ral struggle ;  many  more  are  on  their  side,  dispersed  over 
the  face  of  this  wide  empire.  Every  whig  in  this  country 
and  in  Ireland  is  with  them.  Who,  then,  let  me  demand 
has  given,  and  continues  to  give,  this  strange  and  unconsti- 
tutional advice  ?  I  do  not  mean  to  level  at  any  one  man. 
or  any  particular  set  of  men ;  but,  thus  much  I  will  venture 
to  declare,  that,  if  his  majesty  continues  to  hear  such  coun- 
sellors, he  will  not  only  be  badly  advised,  but  undone.  He 
may  continue,  indeed,  to  \vear  his  crown  ;  but  it  will  not  be 
worth  his  wearing.  Robbed  of  so  principal  a  jewel  as  Ame- 
rica, it  will  lose  its  lustre,  and  no  longer  beam  that  efful- 
gence, which  ^should  irradiate  the  brow  of  majesty. 

In  this  alarming  crisis,  I  corne,  with  this  paper  in  my 
hand,  to  offer  you  the  best  of  my  experience  and  advice ; 
which  is,  that  an  humble  petition  be  presented  to  his  majes- 
ty, beseeching  him,  that,  in  order  to  open  the  way  towards 
a  happy  settlement  of  the  dangerous  troubles  in  America, 
it  may  graciously  please  him,  that  immediate  orders  be  given 
to  General  Gage  for  removing  his  majesty's  forces  from  the 
town  of  Boston. 

And  this,  my  lords,  upon  the  most  mature  and  deliberate 
grounds,  is  the  best  advice  I  can  give  you,  at  this  juncture. 
Such  conduct  will  convince  America  that  you  mean  to  try 
her  cause  in  the  spirit  of  freedom  and  inquiry,  and  not  in  let- 
ters of  blood.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost.  Every  hour  is 
big  with  danger.  Perhaps,  while  I  am  now  speaking,  the 
decisive  blow  is  struck,  which  may  involve  millions  in  the 
consequence.  And,  believe  me,  the  very  first,  drop  of  blood 
which  is  shed,  will  cause  a  wound  which  may  nevei  be 
healed. 


NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON  CXVII. 

Extract  from  the  Speech  of  PATRICK  HENRY,  in  the  Conven- 
tion of  Delegates  of  Virginia,  in  Support  of  his  Resolution 
for  putting  the  Colony  into  a  State  of  Defence,  and  for 
arming  and  disciplining  a  number  of  Men  sufficient  for 
that  Purpose:— -23d  March,  1775. 

MR.  PRESIDENT — It  is  natural  for  man  to  indulge  in  the 
illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a 
painful  truth ;  and  listen  to  the  song  of  that  syren  till  she 
transforms  us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise  men,  en- 
gaged in  a  great  and  arduous  struggle  for  liberty  ?  Are  we 
disposed  to  be  of  the  number  of  those,  who,  having  eyes, 
see  not,  and  having  ears,  hear  not,  the  things  which  so 
nearly  concern  their  temporal  salvation  ?  For  my  part, 
whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am  willing  to 
know  the  whole  truth ;  to  know  the  worst,  arid  to  provide 
for  it. 

I  have  but  one  lamp,  by  which  my  feet  are  guided;  and 
that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  \vay  of  judg- 
ing of  the  future  but  by  the  past.  And,  judging  by  the  past, 
I  wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct  of  the 
British  ministry,  for  the  last  ten  years,  to  justify  those  hopes 
with  which  gentlemen  have  been  pleased  to  solace  them- 
selves and  the  house  ?  Is  it  that  insidious  smile,  with  which 
our  petition  has  been  lately  received  ?  Trust  it  not,  sir  ;  it 
will' prove  a  snare  to  your  feet.  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be 
betrayed  with  a  kiss.  Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious  re- 
ception of  our  petition  comports  with  those  warlike  prepara- 
tions, which  cover  our  waters  and  darken  our  land.  Are  fleets 
and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of  love  and  reconciliation  ? 
Have  we  shown  ourselves  so  unwilling  to  be  reconciled,  that 
force  must  be  called  in  to  win  back  our  love  ?  Let  us  not 
deceive  ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implements  of  war 
and  subjugation- — the  last  arguments  to  which  kings  resort. 
I  ask  gentlemen,  sir,  what  means  this  martial  array,  if  its 
purpose  be  not  to  force  us  to  submission  ?  Can  gentlemen 
assign  any  other  possible  motive  for  it  ?  Has  Great  Britain 
any  enemy,  in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  to  call  for  all  this 
accumulation  of  navies  and  armies  ?  No,  sir,  she  has  none. 
They  are  meant  for  us :  they  can  be  meant  for  no  other. 
They  are  sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet  upon  us  those  chains 
19* 


222  NATIONAL  READEit. 

which  the  British  ministry  have  been  so  long  forging.  And 
what  have  we  to  oppose  to  them  ?  Shall  we  try  argument  1 
Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for  the  last  ten  years.  Have 
we  any  thing  new  to  offer  upon  the  subject  ?  Nothing. 
We  have  held  the  subject  up  in  every  light  of  which  it  is 
capable ;  but  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  Shall  we  resort  to 
entreaty  and  humble  supplication  ?  What  terms  shall  we 
find,  which  have  not  been  already  exhausted  ?  Let  us  not, 
I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer.  Sir,  we  have 
done  eveiy  thing  that  could  be  done,  to  avert  the  storm 
which  is  now  coming  on.  We  have  petitioned ;  we  have  re- 
monstrated ;  we  have  supplicated ;  we  have  prostrated  our- 
selves before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition 
to  arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  parlia: 
ment.  Our  petitions  have  been  slighted ;  our  remonstrances 
have  produced  additional  violence  and  insult;  our  suppli- 
cations have  been  disregarded  ;  and  we  have  been  spurned, 
with  contempt,  from  the  foot  of  the  throne.  In  vain,  after 
these  things,  may  we  indulge  the  fond  hope  of  peace  and 
reconciliation.  There  is  no  longer  any  room  for  hope.  If 
we  wish  to  be  free  ;  if  we  mean  to  preserve  inviolate  those 
inestimable  privileges,  for  which  we  have  been  so  long  con- 
tending ;  if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the  noble  strug- 
gle, in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we 
have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon,  until  the  glorious 
object  of  our  contest  shall  be  obtained — we  must  fight ! — I 
repeat  it,  sir,  we  must  fight !  An  appeal  to  arms,  and  to 
the  God  of  hosts,  is  all  that  is  left  us.  They  tell  us,  sir, 
that  we  are  weak — unable  to  cope  with  so  formidable  an 
adversary.  But  when  shall  we  be  stronger  ?  Will  it  be 
the  next  week,  or  the  next  year?  Will  it  be  when  we  are 
totally  disarmed,  and  when  a  British  guard  shall  be  station- 
ed in  every  house  ?  Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irresolu- 
tion and  inaction  ?  Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual 
resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the 
delusive  phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have 
bound  us  hand  and  foot?  Sir,  we  are  not  weak,  if  we 
make  a  proper  use  of  those  means  which  the  God  of  nature 
hath  placed  in  our  power.  Three  millions  of  people,  armed 
in  the  holy  cause  of  liberty,  and  in  such  a  country  as  that 
which  we  possess,  are  invincible  by  any  force  which  our 
enemy  can  send  against  us.  Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight 
our  battles  alone.  There  is  a  just  God,  who  presides  over 
the  destinies  of  nations,  and  who  will  raise  up  friends  to 


NATIONAL  READER,  223 

fight  our  battles  for  us.  The  battle,  sir,  is  not  to  the  strong 
alone  ;  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active*  the  brave.  Besides, 
sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough  to  desire 
it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest.  There  is 
no  retreat,  but  in  submission  and  slavery  !  Our  chains  are 
forged.  Their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the  plains  of 
Boston  !  The  war  is  inevitable — and  let  it  come  !— I  repeat 
it,  sir,  let  it  come  ! 

It  is  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen  may 
cry,  Peace,  peace — but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war  is  ac- 
tually begun ! 

The  next  gale,  that  sweeps  from  the  north,  will  bring  to 
our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms  !  Our  brethren  are 
already  in  the  field  !  Why  stand  we  here  idle  !  What  is  it 
that  gentlemen  wish  ?  what  would  they  have  ?  Is  life  so 
dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the  price  of 
chains  and  slavery  ?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God. — I  know 
not  what  course  others  may  take,  but,  as  for  me,  give  me 
liberty  or  give  me  death ! 


LESSON   CXVIII. 

Account  of  the  first  hostile  Attack  upon  the  American  Colo* 
nists,  by  the  British  Troops,  in  the.  War  of  the  Revolution,  at 
Lexington  and  Concord,  Mass.  I9th  'April,  1775. — BOTTA. 

WAR  being  every  moment  expected,  the  particular  fate  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Boston  had  become  the  object  of  general 
solicitude.  The  garrison  was  formidable  ;  the  fortifications 
were  carried  to  perfection  ;  and  little  hope  remained,  that  this 
city  would  be  wrested  from  British  domination.  Nor  could 
the  citizens  flatter  themselves  more  with  the  hope  of  escap- 
ing by  sea;  as  the  port  was  blockaded  by  a  squadron. 

Thus  confined,  amidst  an  irritated  soldiery,  the  Bostoni- 
ans  found  themselves  exposed  to  endure  all  the  outrages 
to  be  apprehended  from  military  license.  Their  city  had 
become  a  close  prison,  and  themselves  no  better  than  hos- 
tages in  the  hands  of  the  British  commanders.  This  conside- 
ration alone  sufficed  greatly  to  impede  all  civii  and  military 
operations  projected  by  the  Americans. 

Various  expedients  were  suggested,  in  order  to  extricate 
the  Bostonians  from  this  embarrassing  situation ;  which,  if 


224  NATIONAL  READER. 

they  evinced  no  great  prudence,  certainly  demon'strated  no 
ordinary  obstinacy.  Some  advised,  that  all  the  inhabitants 
of  Boston  should  abandon  the  city;  and  take  refuge  in  other 
places,  where  they  should  be  succoured  at  the  public  ex- 
pense :  but  this  design  was  totally  impracticable,  since  it  de- 
pended on  General  Gage  to  prevent  its  execution. 

Others  recommended,  that  a  valuation  should  be  made  of 
the  houses  and  furniture  belonging  to  the  inhabitants ;  that 
the  city  should  then  be  fired  ;  and  that  all  the  losses  should 
be  reimbursed  from  the  public  treasure.  After  mature  de- 
liberation, this  project  was  also  pronounced  not  only  very 
difficult,  but  absolutely  impossible  to  be  executed. 

Many  inhabitants,  however,  left  the  city  privately,  and 
withdrew  into  the  interior  of  the  country ;  some,  from  dis- 
gust at  this  species  of  captivity  ;  others,  from  fear  of  the  ap- 
proaching hostilities  ;  and  others,  finally,  from  apprehensions 
of  being  questioned  for  acts  against  the  government :  but  a 
great  number,  also,  with  a  firm  resolution,  preferred  to  re- 
main, and  brave  all  consequences  whatever. 

The  soldiers  of  the  garrison,  weary  of  their  long  confine- 
ment, desired  to  sally  forth,  and  drive  away  these  rebels, 
who  intercepted  their  provisions,  and  for  whom  they  cherish- 
ed so  profound  a  contempt.  The  inhabitants  of  Massachu- 
setts, on  the  other  hand,  were  proudly  indignant  at  this 
opinion  of  their  cowardice,  entertained  by  the  soldiers ;  and 
panted  for  an  occasion  to  prove,  by  a  signal  vengeance,  the 
falsehood  of  the  reproach. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  news  arrived  of  the  king's  speech 
at  the  opening  of  parliament ;  of  the  resolutions  adopted  by 
this  body ;  and,  finally,  of  the  act  by  which  the  inhabitants 
of  Massachusetts  were  declared  rebels.  All  the  province 
flew  to  arms  :  indignation  became  fury, — obstinacy,  despe- 
ration. All  idea  of  reconciliation  had  become  chimerical: 
necessity  stimulated  the  most  timid ;  a  thirst  of  vengeance 
fired  every  breast.  The  match  is  lighted, — the  materials 
disposed, — the  conflagration  impends.  The  children  are 
prepared  to  combat  against  their  fathers  ;  citizens  against 
citizens-;  and,  as  the  Americans  declared,  the  friends  of 
liberty  against  its  oppressors, — against  the  founders  of  ty- 
ranny. 

"  In  these  arms,"  said  they,  "  in  our  right  hands,  are 
placed  the  hope  of  safety,  the  existence  of  country,  the  de- 
fence of  property,  the  honour  of  our  wives  and  daughters. 
V\7ith  these  alone  can  we  repulse  a  licentious  soldiery,  pro 


NATIONAL  READER.  225 

tect  what  man  holds  dearest  upon  earth,  and,  unimpaired, 
transmit  our  rights  to  our  descendants.  The  world  will 
admire  our  courage ;  all  good  men  will  second  us  with  their 
wishes  and  prayers,  and  celebrate  our  names  with  immortal 
praises.  Our  memory  will  become  dear  to  posterity.  It 
will  be  the  example,  as  the  hope,  of  freemen,  and  the  dread 
of  tyrants,  to  the  latest  ages.  It  is  time  that  old  and  con- 
taminated England  should  be  made  acquainted  with  the 
energies  of  America,  in  the  prime  and  innocence  of  her 
youth :  it  is  time  she  should  know  how  much  superior  are 
our  soldiers,  in  courage  and  constancy,  to  vile  mercenaries. 
We  must  look  back  no  more  !  We  must  conquer,  or  die  ! 
We  are  placed  between  altars  smoking  with  the  most  grate- 
ful incense  of  glory  and  gratitude,  on  the  one  part,  and  blocks 
and  dungeons  on  the  other.  Let  each,  then,  rise,  and  gird^ 
himself  for  the  combat. t  The  dearest  interests  of  this  world 
command  it :  our  most  holy  religion  enjoins  it :  that  God, 
who  eternally  rewards  the  virtuous,  and  punishes  the  wick- 
ed, ordains  it.  Let  us  accept  these  happy 'auguries ;  for 
already  the  mercenary  satellites,  sent  by  wicked  ministers  to 
reduce  this  innocent  people  to  extremity,  are  imprisoned 
within  the  walls  of  a  single  city,  where  hunger  emaciates 
them,  rage  devours  them,  death  consumes  them.  Let  us 
banish  every  fear,  every  alarm  :  fortune  smiles  upon  the 
efforts  of  the  brave  !" 

By  similar  discourses,  they  excited  one  another,  and  pre- 
pared themselves  for  defence.  The  fatal  moment  is  arrived  : 
the  signal  of  civil  war  is  given. 

General  Gage  was  informed,  that  the  provincials  had 
amassed  large  quantities  of  arms  and  ammunition,  in  the 
towns  of  Worcester  and  Concord;  which  last  is  eighteen 
miles  distant  from  the  city  of  Boston.  Excited  by  the  loy- 
alists, who  had  persuaded  him  that  he  would  find  no  resist- 
ance, considering  the  cowardice  of  the  patriots,  and,  perhaps, 
not  imagining  that  the  sword  would  be  drawn  so  soon,  he 
resolved  to  send  a  few  companies  to  Concord,  in  order  to 
seize  the  military  stores  deposited  there,  and  transport  them 
lo  Boston,  or  destroy  them. 

It  was  said,  also,  that  he  had  it  in  view,  by  this  sudden  ex- 
pedition, to  get  possession  of  the  persons  of  John  Hancock 
and  Samuel  Adams,  two  of  the  most  ardent  patriot  chiefs, 
and  the  principal  directors  of  the  provincial  congress,  then 

*  Pron.  gerd.  t  cum'-bat 


226  NATIONAL  READER. 

assembled  in  the  town  of  Concord.  But,  to  avoid  exciting 
irritation,  and  the  popular  tumults,  which  might  have  ob- 
structed his  design,*-  he  resolved  to  act  with  caution,  and  in 
the  shade  of  mystery. 

Accordingly,  he  ordered  the  grenadiers,  and  several  com 
panics  of  light  infantry,  to  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to 
march  out  of  the  city,  at  the  first  signal ;  adding,  that  it  was 
in  order  to  pass  review,  and  execute  different  manoeuvres 
and  military  evolutions.  The  Bostonians  entertained  suspi- 
cions, and  sent  to  warn  Adams  and  Hancock  to  he  upon 
their  guard.  The  committee  of  public  safety  gave  direc- 
tions, that  the  arms  and  ammunition  should  be  distributed 
about  in  different  places. 

Meanwhile,  General  Gage,  to  proceed  with  more  secrecy, 
commanded  a  certain  number  of  officers,  who  had  been  made 
acquainted  with  his  designs,  to  go,  as  if  on  a  party  of  plea- 
sure, and  dine  at  Cambridge,  which  is  situated  very  near 
Boston,  and  upon  the  road  to  Concord.  It  was  on  the  18th 
of  April,  in  the  evening,  that  these  officers  dispersed  them- 
selves here  and  there  upon  the  road  and  passages,  to  inter- 
cept the  courierst  that  might  have  been  despatched  to  give 
notice  of  the  movement  of  the  troops. 

The  governor  gave  orders  that  no  person  should  be  allow- 
ed to  leave  the  city :  nevertheless,  Dr.  Warren,  one  of 
the  most  active  patriots,  had  timely  intimation  of  the  scheme, 
and  immediately  despatched  confidential  messengers  ;  some 
of  whom  found  the  roads  interdicted  by  the  officers  that 
guarded  them ;  but  others  made  their  way,  unperceived,  to 
Lexington,  a  town  upon  the  road  leading  to  Concord. 

The  intelligence  was  soon  divulged ;  the  people  flocked 
together ;  the  bells,  in  all  parts,  were  rung,  to  give  the 
alarm ;  the  continual  firing  of  cannon  spread  the  agitation 
through  all  the  neighbouring  country.  In  the  midst  of  this 
tumultuous  scene,  at  eleven  in  the  evening,  a  strong  detach- 
ment of  grenadiers,  and  of  light  infantry,  was  embarked  at 
Boston,  and  landed  at  a  place  called  Phipps's  Farm, — now, 
Lechmere's  Point — whence  they  marched  towards  Concord. 
In  this  state  of  things,  the  irritation  had  become  so  intense, 
that  a  spark  only  was  wanting,  to  produce  an  explosion ;  as 
the  event  soon  proved. 

*  Pron.  desine,  not  deziue.  t  coc'-rT-fcrs. 


NATIONAL  READER.  227 

LESSON   CXIX. 

t  The  same,  concluded. 

THE  troops  were  under  the  command  of  Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Smith,  and  Major  Pitcairn,  who  led  the  vanguard.  The 
militia  of  Lexington,  as  the  intelligence  of  the  movement 
of  this  detachment  was  uncertain,  had  separated  in  the 
course  of  the  night.  Finally,  at  five  in  the  morning  of  the 
19th,  advice  was  received  of  the  near  approach  of  the  royal 
troops. 

The  provincials  that  happened  to  be  near,  assembled,  to 
the  number  of  about  seventy,  certainly  too  few  to  have  had 
the  intention  to  engage  in  combat.  The  English  appeared, 
and  Major  Pitcairn  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Disperse,  rebels  ! 
lay  down  your  arms,  and  disperse!"  The  provincials  did 
not  obey ;  upon  which  he  sprung  from  the  ranks,  discharged 
a  pistol,  and,  brandishing  his  sword,  ordered  his  soldiers  to 
fire.  The  provincials  retreated ;  the  English  continuing 
their  fire,  the  former  faced  about  to  return  it. 

Meanwhile,  Hancock  and  Adams  retired  from  danger ; 
and  it  is  related,  that,  while  on  the  march,  the  latter,  enrap- 
tured with  joy,  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  what  an  ever-glorious 
morning  is  this !"  considering  this  first  effusion  of  blood  as 
the  preTude  of  events,  which  must  secure  th'e  happiness  of 
his  country. 

The  soldiers  advanced  towards  Concord.  The  inhabit- 
ants assembled,  and  appeared  disposed  to  act  upon  the  de- 
fensive ;  but,  seeing  the  numbers  of  the  enemy,  they  fell 
back,  and  posted  themselves  on  the  bridge,  north  of  the 
town,  intending  to  wait  for  re-enforcements  from  the  neigh- 
bouring places;  but  the  light  infantry  assailed  them  with  fury, 
routed  them,  and  occupied  the  bridge,  whilst  the  others  en- 
tered Concord,  and  proceeded  to  the  execution  of  their  orders. 

They  spiked  two  pieces  of  twenty-four  pound  cannon, 
destroyed  their  carriages,  and  a  number  of  wheels  for  the 
use  of  the  artillery ;  threw  into  the  river  and  into  wells  five 
hundred  pounds  of  bullets ;  and  wasted  a  quantity  of  flour, 
deposited  there  by  the  provincials.  These  were  the  arms 
and  provisions  which  gave  the  first  occasion  to  a  long  and 
cruel  war ! 

But  the  expedition  was  not  yet  terminated:  the  minute- 
men  arrived,  and  the  forces  of  the  provincials  were  increased 


228  NATIONAL  READER. 

by  continual  accessions  from  every  quarter.  The  light  in* 
fantry,  who  scoured  the  country  above  Concord,  were  obliged 
to  retreat,  and,  on  entering  the  town,  a  hot  skirmish  ensued. 
A  great  number  were  killed  on  both  sides. 

The  light  infantry  having  joined  the  main  body  of  the  de- 
tachment, the  English  retreated  precipitately  towards  Lex- 
ington. Already  the  whole  country  had  risen  in  arms,  and 
the  militia  from  all  parts  flew  to  the  succour  of  their  friends. 
Before  the  British  detachment  had  arrived  at  Lexington,  its 
rear  guard  and  flanks  suffered  great  annoyance  from  the 
provincials,  who,  posted  behind  the  trees,  walls,  and  frequent 
hedges,  kept  up  a  brisk  fire,  which  the  enemy  could  not 
return.  The  soldiers  of  the  king  found  themselves  in  a  most 
perilous  situation. 

General  Gage,  apprehensive  of  the  event,  had  despatched, 
in  haste,  under  the  command  of  Lord  Percy,  a  re-enforcement 
of  sixteen  companies,  with  some  marines,^  and  two  field 
pieces.  This  corps!  arrived  very  opportunely  at  Lexington, 
at  the  moment  wrhen  the  royal  troops  entered  the  town  from 
the  other  side,  pursued  with  fury  by  the  provincial  militia. 

It  appears  highly  probable,  that,  without  this  re-enforce- 
ment, they  would  have  been  all  cut  to  pieces,  or  made  pri- 
soners: their  strength  was  exhausted,  as  well  as  their  am- 
munition. After  making  a  considerable  halt  at  Lexington, 
they  renewed  their  march  towards  Boston,  the  number  of 
the  provincials  increasing  every  moment,  although  the  rear 
guard  of  the  English  wras  less  molested,  on  account  of  the 
two  field  pieces,  which  repressed  the  impetuosity  of  the 
Americans.  But  the  flanks  of  the  column  remained  exposed 
to  a  very  destructive  fire,  which  assailed  them  from  all  the 
points  that  were  adapted  to  serve  as  coverts. 

The  royalists  were  also  annoyed  by  the  heat,  which  was 
excessive,  and  by  a  violent  wind,  which  blew  a  thick  dust  in 
their  eyes.  The  enemy's  scouts,  adding  to  their  natural 
celerity  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  country,  came  up  unex- 
pectedly through  cross  roads,  and  galled  the  English  severe- 
ly, taking  aim  especially  at  the  officers,  who,  perceiving  it, 
kept  much  on  their  guard. 

Finally,  after  a  inarch  of  incredible  fatigue,  and  a  conside- 
rable loss  of  men,  the  English,  overwhelmed  with  lassitude, 
arrived  at  sun-set  in  Charlestown.  Independently  of  the 
combat  they  had  sustained,  the  ground  they  had  measured 

*  Pron.  marociis.  t  cOre. 


NATIONAL  READER.  229 

that  day  was  above  five  and  thirty  miles.  The  day  foDovv- 
ing  they  crossed  over  to  Boston. 

Such  was  the  affair  of  Lexington,  the  first  action  which 
opened  the  civil  war.  The  English  soldiers,  and  especially 
their  officers,  were  filled  with  indignation  at  the  fortune  of 
the  dity :  they  could  not  endure,  that  an  undisciplined  mul- 
titude,— that  a  flock  of  Yankees,  as  they  contemptuously 
named  the  Americans, — should  not  only  have  maintained 
their  ground  against  them,  but  even  forced  them  to  show 
their  backs,  and  take  refuge  behind  the  walls  of  a  city. 

The  provincials,  on  the  contrary,  felt  their  courage  im- 
measurably increased,  since  they  had  obtained  a  proof,  that 
these  famous  troops  were  not  invincible ;  and  had  made  so 
fortunate  an  essay  of  the  goodness  of  their  arms. 


LESSON   CXX. 

Extract  of  an  Oration  delivered  at  Concord,  Mass.  19 th 
April,  1825,  in  Commemoration  of  the  Battles  of  Lexing- 
to?i  a?id  Concord,  I9tk  April,  1775. — E.  EVERETT. 

THIS  is  a  proud  anniversary  for  our  neighbourhood.  We 
have  cause  for  honest  complacency,  that,  when  the  distant 
citizen  of  our  own  republic,  when  the  stranger  from  foreign 
lands,  inquires  for  the  spots  where  the  noble  blood  of  the 
revolution  began  to  flow,  where  the  first  battle  of  that  great 
and  glorious  contest  was  fo.ught,  he  is  guided  through  the 
villages  of  Middlesex,  to  the  plains  of  Lexington  and  Con- 
cord. It  is  a  commemoration  of  our  soil,  to  which  ages,  as 
they  pass,  will  add  dignity  and  interest;  till  the  names  of 
Lexington  and  Concord,  in  the  annals  of  freedom,  will  stand 
by  the  side  of  the  most  honourable  names  in  Roman  or 
Grecian  story. 

It  was  one  of  those  great  days,  one  of  those  elemental 
occasions  in  the  world's  affairs,  when  the  people  rise,  and 
act  for  themselves.  Some  organization  and  preparation  had 
been  made  ;  but,  from  the  nature  of  the  case,  with  scarce 
any  effect  on  the  events  of  that  day.  It  may  be  doubted, 
whether  there  was  an  efficient  order  given,  the  whole  day, 
to  any  body  of  men  as  large  as  a  regiment.  It  was  the  peo- 
ple, in  their  first  capacity,  as  citizens  and  as  freemen,  start- 
ing from  their  beds  at  midnight,  from  their  firesides,  and 
L>0 


230  NATIONAL  READER. 

from  their  fields,  to  take  their  own  cause  into  their  own 
hands.  Such  a  spectacle  is  the  height  of  the  moral  sublime  ; 
when  the  want  of  every  thing  is  fully  made  up  by  the  spirit 
of  the  cause ;  and  the  soul  within  stands  in  place  of  disci- 
pline, organization,  resources.  In  the  prodigious  efforts  of 
a  veteran  army,  beneath  the  dazzling  splendor  of  their  ar- 
ray, there  is  something  revolting  to  the  reflective  mind. 
The  ranks  are  filled  with  the  desperate,  the  mercenary,  the 
depraved  ;  an  iron  slavery,  by  the  name  of  subordination, 
merges  the  free  will  of  one  hundred  thousand  men  in  the 
unqualified  despotism  of  one;  the  humanity,  mercy,  and 
remorse,  which  scarce  ever  desert  the  individual  bosom,  are 
sounds  without  a  meaning  to  that  fearful,  ravenous,  irration- 
al monster  of  prey,  a  mercenary  army.  It  is  hard  to  say 
who  are  most  to  be  commiserated,  the  wretched  people,  on 
whom  it  is  let  loose,  or  the  still  more  wretched  people,  whose 
substance  has  been  sucked  out,  to  nourish  it  into  strength 
and  fury.  But,  in  the  efforts  of  the  people,  of  the  people 
struggling  for  their  rights,  moving  not  in  organized,  disci- 
plined masses,  but  in  their  spontaneous  action,  man  for  man, 
and  heart  for  heart, — though  I  like  not  war,  nor  any  of  its 
works, — there  is  something  glorious.  They  can  then  move 
forward  without  orders,  act  together  without  combination, 
and  brave  the  flaming  lines  of  battle,  without  entrenchments 
to  cover,  or  walls  to  shield  them.  No  dissolute  camp  has 
worn  off,  from  the  feelings  of  the  youthful  soldier,  the  fresh- 
ness of  that  home,  where  his  mother  and  his  sisters  sit  .wait- 
ing, with  tearful  eyes  and  aching  hearts,  to  hear  good  news 
from  the  wars ;  no  long  service  in  the  ranks  of  a  conqueror 
has  turned  the  veteran's  heart  into  marble ;  their  valour 
springs  not  from  recklessness,  from  habit,  from  indifference 
to  the  preservation  of  a  life,  knit  by  no  pledges  to  the  life 
of  others.  But  in  the  strength  and  spirit  of  the  cause  alone 
they  act,  they  contend,  they  bleed.  In  this,  they  conquer, 
The  people  always  conquer.  They  always  must  conquer 
Armies  may  be  defeated ;  kings  may  be  overthrown,  and 
new  dy'nasties  imposed,  by  foreign  arms,  on  an  ignorant  and 
slavish  race,  that  care  not  in  what  language  the  covenant 
of  their  subjection  runs,  nor  in  whose  name  the  deed  of 
their  barter  and  sale  is  made  out.  But  the  people  never  in- 
vade ;  and  when  they  rise  against  the  invader,  are  never 
subdued.  If  they  are  driven  from  the  plains,  they  fly  to 
the  mountains.  Steep  rocks,  and  everlasting  hills,  are  their 
castles ;  the  tangled,  pathless  thicket  their  palisado ;  and 


NATIONAL  READER.  231 

nature, — God,  is  their  ally.  Now  he  overwhelms  the  hosts 
of  their  enemies  beneath  his  drifting  mountains  of  sand  ; 
now  he  huries  them  beneath  a  falling  atmosphere  of  polar 
snows ;  he  lets  loose  his  tempests  on  their  fleets ;  he  puts  a 
folly  into  their  counsels,  a  madness  into  the  hearts  of  their 
leaders ;  and  he  never  gave,  and  he  never  will  give,  a  full 
and  final  triumph  over  a  virtuous,  gallant  people,  resolved 
to  be  free. 


LESSON  CXXI. 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. — GRAY. 

THE  curfew  tolls — the  knell  of  parting  day ; — 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea  ; 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds  ; 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandeiing  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow,  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


232  NATIONAL  READER. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield  ; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await,  alike,  the  inevitable  hour ; — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 

Where,  through  tbe  long-drawn  aisle,  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note -of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart,  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unrol ; 

Chili  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear ; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood  ; 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  bis  country's  blood. 


NATIONAL  READER.  233 

The  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; — 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  Truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  Shame ; 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Vet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial,  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelled  by  the  unlettered  muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 

That  teach  the  rustic  .moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, — 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, — 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies  : 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires : 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonoured  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If,  chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, 
20* 


§34  NATIONAL  READER. 

Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
"Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so  highj 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove ; 

Now  drooping,  woful  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love, 

"  One  morn  I  missed  hirn  on  the  accustomed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree : 

Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he : 

"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne. 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay, 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn/' 


The  Epitaph. 

HERE  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown : 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere : 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : — 

He  gave  to  misery  all  he  had — a  tear; 

He  gained  from  heaven — 'twas  all  he  wished — a  friend, 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, — 

(There  they,  alike",  in  trembling  hope,  repose^) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


NATIONAL  READER.  236 

LESSON  CXXII. 
The  Grave  of  Korner.-*-  MRS.  HKM'ANS. 

THEODORE  KORNER,  the  young  German  t>oet  and  soldier.  was 
killed  in  a  skirmish  with  a  detachment  of  French  troops,  on  the  26th 
of  August,  1813,  a  few  hours  after  the  composition  of  his  most  popular 
piece,  "The  Sword  Song-."  lie  was  buried  under  a  beautiful  oaK,  in  a 
recess  of  which  he  had  frequently  deposited  verses  composed  by  him  while 
Campaigning  in  its  vicinity.  The  monument  erected  to  his  memory,  be- 
neath this  tree,  is  of  cast.  "iron,  and  the  upper  part  is  wrought  into  a  lyre 
and  sword,  a  favourite  emblem  of  Konier's,  from  which  one  of  his  works 
had  been  entitled. 

Near  the  grave  of  the  poet  is  that  of  his  only  sister,  who  died  of  grief  for 
his  loss,  having  survived  him  only  long  enough  to  complete  his  portrait, 
and  a  drawing  of  his  burial  place.  Over  the  gate  of  the  cemetery  is  en- 
graved one  of  his  own  lines,  "Forget  not  the  faithful  dead." 

GREEN  wave  the  oak  forever  o'er  thy  rest  ! 

Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepest, 
And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 

Thy  place  of  memory,  as  an  altar,  keepest  : 
Brightly  thy  spirit  o'er  her  hills  was  poured, 
Thou  of  the  lyre  and  sword  ! 

Rest,  bard  !  rest,  soldier  !     By  the  father's  hand 
Here  shall  the  child  of  after-years  be  led, 

With  his  wreath-offering  silently  to  stand 

In  the  hushed  presence  of  the  glorious  dead,  — 

Soldier  and  bard  !  —  For  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  Freedom  and  with 


The  oak  waved  proudly  'o'er  thy  burial  rite  ; 

On  thy  crowned  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bore  thee  ; 
And,  with  true  hearts,  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 

Wept  as  they  vailed  their  drooping  banners  o'er  thee  ; 
And  the  deep  guns,  with  rolling  peal,  gave  token 
That  lyre  and  sword  were  broken. 

Thou  hast  a  hero's  tomb  !  —  A  lowlier  bed 
Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying, 

The  gentle  girl,  that  bowed  her  fair  young  head, 
When  thou  wert  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 

Brother  !  —  true  friend  !  —  the  tender  and  the  brave  ! 
She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

*  The  poems  of  Korner,  which  were  chiefly  devoted  to  the  cause  of  his 
country,  are  strikingly  distinguished  by  religious  feeling,  and  a  confidence 
iii  the  Supreme  Justice  for  the  final  deliverance  of  Germany. 


236  NATIONAL   READER. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others  ; — but  for  her, — 
To  whom  the  wide  earth  held  that  only  spot, — 

She  loved  thee  ! — lovely  in  your  lives  ye  were, 
And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not. 

Thou  hast  thine  oak — thy  trophy— what  hath  she  1 
Her  own  blessed  place  by  thee. 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother  !  which  had  made 

The  bright  world  glorious  to  her  thoughtful  eye, 

Since  first  in  childhood  'midst  the  vines  ye  played, 
And  sent  glad  singing  through  the  free  blue  sky. 

Ye  were  but  two  ! — and,  when  that  spirit  passed, 
Wo  for  the  one.  the  last ! 

Wo: — yet  not  long  : — she  lingered  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  in  her  breast ; — 

Once,  once  again,  to  see  that  buried  face 
But  smile  upon  her,  ere  she  went  to  rest. 

Too  sad  a  smile ! — its  living  light  was  o'er; 
It  answered  hers  no  more  ! 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 
The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled  : 

What,  then,  was  left  for  her,  the  faithful-hearted  7 
Death,  death,  to  still  the  yearning  for  the  dead  ! 

Softly  she  perished.     Be  the  flower  deplored 
Here,  with  the  lyre  and  sword. 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now  ?     So  let  those  trust, 
That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years, 

That  weep,  watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from  dust, 
That  love,  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears  ! 

Brother  !   sweet  sister  !  peace  around  ye  dwell ! 
Lyre,  sword,  and  flower, — farewell ! 


LESSON   CXXIII. 
Gods  Jirst  Temples — A  Hymn. — BRYANT. 

TJIE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 


NATIONAL  READER. 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences. 

That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that  high  in  heaven, 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  swayed  at  once 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  arid  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 

And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised !     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn ;  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 

Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns ;  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  towards  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches ;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.     Here  are  seen 
No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  pride ;  no  silks 
Rustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 
Encounter ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here  ;  thou  fill'st 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trees 
In  music ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 
Here  is  continual  worship ;  nature,  here, 


238  NATIONAL 

In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 

Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 

From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its  herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 

Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 

Of  all  the  good  it  does.     Thou  hast  not  left 

Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immoveable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves,  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun.     That  delicate  forest  flower 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  :  but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  you  th- 
in all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  than  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     O,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms :  upon  her  bosom  yet 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death;  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulchre,  and  blooms  and  smiles 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forUi 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 


NATIONAL  READER.  289 

There  have  been  holy  men,  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 
Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ;  and  there  have  been  holy  men, 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and,  in  thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here,  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps,  shrink, 
And  tremble,  and  are  still.     O  God!  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots  the  woods, 
And  drowns  the  villages ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities ; — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
O,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And,  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works, 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


LESSON   CXXIV. 

Hymn  of  Nature. — PEA  BODY. 
\ 

GOD  of  the  earth's  extended  plains ! 

The  dark  green  fields  contented  lie  : 
The  mountains  rise  like  holy  towers, 

Where  man  might  com'mune  with  the  sky : 
The  tall  cliff  challenges  the  storm 

That  lowers  upon  the  vale  below, 
Where  shaded  fountains  send  their  streams, 

With  joyous  music  in  their  flow. 


240  NATIONAL  READER. 

God  of  the  dark  and  heavy  deep ! 

The  waves  lie  sleeping  on  the  sands, 
Till  the  fierce  trumpet  of  the  storm 

Hath  summoned  up  their  thundering  bands ; 
Then  the  white  sails  are  dashed  like  foam, 

Or  hurry,  trembling,  o'er  the  seas, 
Till,  calmed  by  thee,  the  sinking  gale 

Serenely  breathes,  Depart  in  peace. 

God  of  the  forest's  solemn  shade ! 

The  grandeur  of  the  lonely  tree, 
That  wrestles  singly  with  the  gale, 

Lifts  up  admiring  eyes  to  thee ; 
But  more  majestic  far  they  stand, 

When,  side  by  side,  their  ranks  they  form, 
To  wave  on  high  their  plumes  of  green, 

And  fight  their  battles  with  the  storm. 

God  of  the  light  and  viewless  air ! 

Where  summer  breezes  sweetly  flow, 
Or,  gathering  in  their  angry  might, 

The  fierce  and  wintry  tempests  blow ; 
All — from  the  evening's  plaintive  sigh, 

That  hardly  lifts  the  drooping  flower, 
To  the  wild  whirlwind's  midnight  cry — 

Breathe  forth  the  language  of  thy  power. 

God  of  the  fair  and  open  sky  ! 

How  gloriously  above  us  springs 
The  tented  dome,  of  heavenly  blue, 

Suspended  on  the  rainbow's  rings  ;- 
Each  brilliant  star,  that  sparkles  through, 

Each  gilded  cloud,  that  wanders  free 
In  evening's  purple  radiance,  gives 

The  beauty  of  its  praise  to  thee. 

God  of  the  rolling  orbs  above ! 

Thy  name  is  written  clearly  bright 
In  the  warm  day's  unvarying  blaze, 

Or  evening's  golden  shower  of  light. 
For  every  fire  that  fronts  the  sun, 

And  every  spark  that  walks  alone 
Around  the  utmost  verge  of  heaven, 

Were  kindled  at  thy  burning  throne. 


NATIONAL  READER.  241 

God  of  the  world !  the  hour  must  come, 

And  nature's  self  to  dust  return ! 
Her  crumbling  altars  must  decay! 

Her  incense  fires  shall  cease  to  burn ! 
But  still  her  grand  and  lovely  scenes 

Have  made  man's  warmest  praises  flow ; 
For  hearts  grow  holier  as  they  trace 

The  beauty  of  the  world  below. 


LESSON  CXXV. 

w 

Lines  on  revisiting  the  Country.—- BRYANT. 

I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that,  in  the  southern  sky. 
With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie  ; 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scooped  between, 
Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  unseen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever-restless  steps  of  one,  who  now 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year : 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young  brow, 

As  breaks  "the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 

Upheaved,  and  spread  in, verdure  and  in  light: 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To. gaze  upon  the  mountains;  to  behold, 

With  deep  affection,  the  pure,  ample  sky, 
And  clouds  along  the  blue  abysses  rolled ; 

To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 

The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear 

Here  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat. 
Its  horrid  sounds  and  its  polluted  air ; 

And,  where  the  season's  milder  fervours  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders,  bear 

The  song  of  bird  and  sound  of  running  stream. 

Have  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 
21 


242  NATIONAL  READKU. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun !  thou  canst  not  wake, 
In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen; 

The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take. 
From  thy  fierce  heats  a  deeper,  glossier  green; 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 

Sweeps  the  blue  streams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind — most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows — when,  in  the  sultry  time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime, — 

As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow 

Kea||Jh  *^r!  rpfreshment  on  the  world  below. 


LESSON  CXXVI. 

Lines  on  a  Bee-Hive. — MONTHLY  REPOSITORY. 

YE  musical  hounds  of  the  fairy  king, 

Who  hunt  for  the  golden  dew, 

Who  track  for  your  game  the  green  coverts  of  spring, 
Till  the  echoes,  that  lurk  in  the  flower-bells,  ring 

With  the  peal  of  your  elfin  crew ! 

How  joyous  your  life,  if  its  pleasures  ye  Knew, 

Singing  ever  from  bloom  to  bloom ! 
Ye  wander  the  summer  year's  paradise  through, 
The  souls  of  the  flowers  are  the  viands  for  you, 

And  the  air  that  you  breathe  perfume. 

But  unenvied  your  joys,  Avhile  the  richest  you  miss, 

And  before  you  no  brighter  life  lies : 
Who  would  part  with  his  cares  for  enjoyment  like  this, 
When  the  tears,  that  imbitter  the  pure  spirit's  bliss- 

"M".-,  v  De  pearls  in  the  crown  of  the  skies ! 


LESSON  CXXVII. 
Account  of  the  Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill,  llth  June,  1775.-  - 

BOTTA. 

THE  succours  that  the   British  expected  from  England 
bad  arrived  at   Boston,  and,  with  the  garrison,  formed  no 


NATIONAL  READER.  243 

army  of  from  ten  to  twelve  thousand  men, — all  excellent 
troops.  Three  distinguished  generals,  Howe,  Clinton,  and 
Burgoyne,  were  at  the  head  of  these  re-enforcements.  Great 
events  were  looked  for  on  both  sides. 

The  English  were  inflamed  with  desire  to  wash  out  the 
stain  of  Lexington  :  they  could  not  endure  the  idea,  that  the 
Americans  had  seen  them  fly :  it  galled  them  to  think,  that 
the  soldiers  of  the  British  King,  renowned  for  their  brilliant 
exploits,  were  now  closely  imprisoned  within  the  walls  of  a 
city.  They  were  desirous,  at  any  price,  of  proving  that  their 
vaunted  superiority  over  the  herds  of  American  militia,  was 
not  a  vain  chimera. 

Above  all,  they  ardently  desired  to  terminate,  by  some  de- 
cisive stroke,  this  ignominious  war ;  arid  thus  satisfy,  at 
once,  their  own  glory,  the  expectations  of  their  country,  the 
orders,  the  desires,  and  the  promises,  of  the  ministers.  But 
victory  was  exacted  of  them  still  more  imperiously  by  the 
scarcity  of  food,  which  every  day  became  more  alarming ; 
for,  if  they  must  sacrifice  their  lives,  they  chose  rather  to 
perish  by  the  sword  than  by  famine.  The  Americans,  on 
their  part,  were  not  less  eager  for  the  hour  of  combat  to  ar- 
rive :  their  preceding  successes  had  stimulated  their  courage, 
and  promised  them  new  triumphs. 

In  this  state  of  things,  the  English  generals  deliberated 
maturely  upon  the  most  expedient  mode  of  extricating  them- 
selves from  this  difficult  position,  and  placing  themselves 
more  at  large  in  the  country.  #  =&  =fc  =fc 

Accordingly,  they  directed  their  views  towards  the  pe- 
ninsula and  neck  of  Charlestown.  The  American  generals 
had  immediate  notice  of  it,  and  resolved  to  exert  their  most 
strenuous  endeavours  to  defeat  this  new  project  of  the  ene- 
my. Nothing  was  better  suited  to  such  a  purpose,  than  to 
fortify  diligently  the  heights  of  Bunker's  Hill,  which  com- 
manded the  whole  extent  of  the  peninsula  of  Charlestown. 
Orders  were,  therefore,  given  to  Colonel  William  Prescott, 
to  occupy  tnem  with  a  detachment  of  a  thousand  men,  and 
to  intrench  himself  there  by  the  rules  of  art. 

But  here  an  error  was  committed,  which  placed  the  gar- 
rison of  Boston  in  very  imminent  danger,  and  reduced  the 
two  parties  to  the  necessity  of  coming  to  action  immediate- 
ly. Whether  he  was  deceived  by  the  resemblance  of  name, 
or  from  some  other  motive  unknown,  Colonel  Prescott,  in- 
stead of  repairing  to  Bunker's  Hill,  to  fortify  himself  there, 
advanced  farther  on  in  the  peninsula,  and  immediately  com- 


244  NATIONAL  READER. 

menced  Ms  intrenchments  upon  the  summit  of  Breed's  Hill, 
another  eminence,  which  overlooks  Chariest  own,  from  the 
north-east,  and  is  situated  towards  the  extremity  of  the  pe- 
ninsula, nearer  to  Boston. 

J/The  works  were  pushed  with  so  much  ardour,  that,  the 
fallowing  morning,  the  17th  of  June,  by  day -break,  the 
Americans  had  already  constructed  a  square  redoubt,  capable 
of  affording  them  some  shelter  from  the  enemy's  lire.  The 
labour  had  been  conducted  with  such  silence,  that  the  Eng- 
lish had  no  suspicion  of  what  was  passing.  It  was  about 
four  in  the  morning,  when  the  captain  of  a  ship  of  war  first 
perceived  it,  and  began  to  play  his  artillery.  The  report 
of  the  cannon  attracted  a  multitude  of  spectators  to  the 
shore. 

The  English  generals  doubted  the  testimony  of  their 
senses.  Meanwhile,  it  appeared  important  to  dislodge  the 
provincials,  or  at  least  prevent  them  from  completing  the 
fortifications  commenced :  for,  as  the  height  of  Breed's  Hill 
absolutely  commands  Boston,  the  city  was  no  longer  tena- 
ble, if  the  Americans  erected  a  battery  upon  this  eminence. 

The  English,  therefore,  opened  a  general  fire  of  artillery 
from  the  city,  the  fleet,  and  the  floating  batteries  stationed 
around  the  peninsula  of  Boston.  It  hailed  a  tempest  of  bombs 
and  balls  upon  the  works  of  the  Americans  :  they  were  espe- 
cially incommoded  by  the  fire  of  a  battery  planted  upon  an 
eminence  named  Copp's  Hill,  which,  situated  within  the  city, 
overlooks  Charlestown  from  the  south,  and  is  but  three 
fourths  of  a  mile  distant  from  Breed's  Hill. 

But  all  this  was  without  effect.  The  Americans  continu- 
ed to  work  with  unshaken  constancy;  and,  by  noon,  they 
had  much  advanced  a  trench,  which  descended  from  the  re- 
doubt to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  almost  to  the  bank  of 
Mystic  River.  The  fury  of  the  enemy's  artillery,  it  is  true, 
had  prevented  them  from  carrying  it  to  perfection. 

In  this  conjuncture,  there  remained  no  alternative  for  the 
English  generals,  but  to  drive  the  Americans,  by  dint  of 
force,  from  this  formidable  position.  This  resolution  was 
taken  without  hesitation ;  and  it  was  followed  by  the  action 
of  Breed's  Hill,  known  also  by  the  name  of  Bunker's  Hill  ; 
much  renowned  for  intrepidity,  not  to  say  the  temerity,  of 
the  two  parties ;  for  the  number  of  the  dead  and  wounded  ; 
and  for  the  effect  it  produced  upon  the  opinions  of  men,  in 
regard  to  the  valour  of  the  Americans,  and  the  probable  issue 
of  the  whole  war. 


NATIONAL  READER.  245 

The  right  -wing  of  the  Americans  was  flanked  by  the 
houses  of  Charlestown,  which  they  occupied ;  and  the  part 
of  this  wing,  which  was  connected  with  the  main  body,  was 
defended  by  the  redoubt  erected  upon  Breed's  Hill.  The 
centre,  and  the  left  wing,  formed  themselves  behind  the 
trench,  which,  following  the  declivity  of  the  hill,  extended 
towards,  but  without  reaching,  Mystic  River. 

The  American  officers,  observing  that  the  weakest  part 
of  their  line  was  precisely  this  extremity  of  the  left  wing, — 
for  the  trench  not  extending  to  the  river,  and  the  land  in 
this  place  being  smooth  and  nearly  level,  there  was  danger 
of  that  wing's  being  turned,  and  attacked  in  the  rear, — 
caused  the  passage,  between  the  extreme  left  and  the  river, 
to  be  obstructed,  by  setting  down  two  parallel  palisades,  or 
ranges  of  fence,  and  filling  up  the  space  between  them  with 
new-mown  grass. 

The  troops  of  Massachusetts  occupied  Charlestown,  the 
redoubt,  and  a  part  of  the  trench  ;  those  of  Connecticut,  com- 
manded by  Captain  Nolten,  and  those  of  New  Hampshire, 
under  Colonel  Starke,  the  rest  of  the  trench.  A  few  mo- 
ments before  the  action  commenced,  Doctor  Warren, — a 
man  of  great  authority,  and  a  zealous  patriot, — who  had 
been  appointed  general,  arrived  with  some  re-enforcements. 
General  Pomercy  made  his  appearance  at  the  same  time. 
The  first  joined  the  troops  of  his  own  province,  Massachu- 
setts ;  the  second  took  command  of  those  from  Connecti- 
cut. General  Putnam  directed  in  chief,  and  held  himself 
ready  to  repair  to  any  point  where  his  presence  should  be 
most  wanted. 

The  Americans  had  no  cavalry.  Their  artillery,  without 
being  very  numerous,  was,  nevertheless,  competent.  They 
wanted  not  for  muskets ;  but  the  greater  part  of  these  were 
without  bayonets.  Their  sharp-shooters,  for  want  of  rides, 
were  obliged  to  use  common  firelocks ;  but  as  marksmen 
they  had  no  equals.  Such  were  the  means  of  the  Ameri- 
cans ;  but  their  hope  was  great,  and  they  were  all  impatient 
for  the  signal  of  combat. 

Between  mid-day  and  one  o'clock,  the  heat  being  intense, 
all  was  in  motion  in  the  British  camp.  A  multitude  of  sloops 
and  boats,  filled  with  soldiers,  left  the  shore  of  Boston,  and 
stood  for  Charlestown :  they  landed  at  Moreton's  Point, 
about  half  a  mile  south-east  of  the  summit  of  Breed's 
Hill,  without  meeting  resistance  ;  as  the  ships  of  war  and 
armed  vessels  effectually  protected  the  debarkation  by  the 
21* 


246  NATIONAL  READER. 

fire  of  their  artillery,  which  forced  the  enemy  to  keep  within 
his  intrenchments. 

This  corps  consisted  of  ten  companies  of  grenadiers,  as 
many  of  light  infantry,  and  a  proportionate  artillery ;  the 
whole  under  the  command  of  Major-general  Howe  and  Briga- 
dier-general Plg'ot.  The  troops,  on  landing,  began  to  dis- 
play, the  light  infantry  upon  the  right,  the  grenadiers  upon 
the  left : — but,  having  observed  the  strength  of  the  position, 
and  the  good  countenance  of  the  Americans,  General  Howe 
made  a  halt,  and  sent  for  a  re-enforcement. 


LESSON  CXXVIII. 

The  saw?,,  concluded. 


ON  being  re-enforced,  the  English  formed  themselves  in 
two  columns.  Their  plan  was,  that  the  left  wing,  under 
General  Pigot,  should  attack  the  rebels  in  Charlestown, 
while  the  centre  should  assault  the  redoubt,  and  the  right 
wing,  consisting  of  light  infantry,  force  the  passage  near  the 
River  Mystic,  and  thus  assail  the  Americans  in  flank  and 
rear  ;  which  would  have  given  the  English  a  complete  vic- 
tory. It  appears,  also,  that  General  Gage  had  formed  the 
design  of  setting  fire  to  Charlestown,  when  evacuated  by  the 
enemy,  in  order  that  the  corps  destined  to  assail  the  redoubt, 
thus  protected  by  the  flame  and  smoke,  might  be  less  exposed 
to  the  fire  of  the  provincials. 

The  dispositions  having  all  been  completed,  the  English 
put  themselves  in  motion.  The  provincials  that  were  sta- 
tioned to  defend  Charlestown,  fearing  lest  the  assailants 
should  penetrate  between  this  town  and  the  redoubt,  and  cut 
them  off  from  the  rest  of  the  army,  retreated.  The  left  wing 
of  the  English  army  immediately  entered  the  town,  and  fired 
the  buildings  :  as  they  were  of  wood,  in  a  moment  the  com- 
bustion became  general. 

The  centre  of  the  British  force  continued  a  slow  march 
against  the  redoubt  and  trench  ;  halting,  from  time  to  time, 
for  the  artillery  to  come  up,  and  act  with  some  effect,  pre- 
vious to  the  assault.  The  flames  and  smoke  of  Charlestown 
were  of  no  use  to  them,  as  the  wind  turned  them  in  a  con- 
trary direction.  Their  gradual  advance,  and  the  extreme 
clearness  of  the  air,  permitted  the  Americans  to  level  their 


NATIONAL  READER.  247 

muskets.  They,  however,  suffered  the  enemy  to  approach, 
before  they  commenced  their  fire ;  and  waited  for  the  assault 
in  profound  tranquillity. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  paint  the  scene  of  terror  present- 
ed by  the  actual  circumstances ; — a  large  town,  all  enve- 
loped in  flames,  which,  excited  by  a  violent  wind,  rose  to  an 
immense  height,  and  spread  every  moment  more  and  more; — 
an  innumerable  multitude,  rushing  from  all  parts,  to  witness 
so  unusual  a  spectacle,  and  see  the  issue  of  the  sanguinary 
conflict  that  was  about  to  commence  ; — the  Bostonians,  and 
soldiers  of  the  garrison,  not  in  actual  service,  mounted  upon 
the  spires,  upon  the  roofs,  and  upon  the  heights ; — and  the 
hills,  and  circumjacent  fields,  from  which  the  dread  arena 
could  be  viewed  in  safety,  covered  with  swarms  of  spec- 
tators of  every  rank,  and  age,  and  sex  ;  each  agitated  by  fear 
or  hope,  according  to  the  party  he  espoused. 

The  English  having  advanced  within  reach  of  musketry, 
the  Americans  showered  upon  them  a  volley  of  bullets.  This 
terrible  fire  was  so  well  supported,  and  so  well  directed,  that 
the  ranks  of  the  assailants  were  soon  thinned  and  broken : 
they  retired  in  disorder  to  the  place  of  their  landing :  some 
threw  themselves  precipitately  into  the  boats. 

The  field  of  battle  was  covered  with  the  slain.  The  offi- 
cers were  seen  running  hither  and  thither,  with  promises, 
with  exhortations,  and  with  menaces,  attempting  to  rally 
the  soldiers,  and  inspirit  them  for  a  second  attack.  Finally, 
after  the  most  painful  efforts,  they  resumed  their  ranks,  and 
marched  up  to  the  enemy.  The  Americans  reserved  their 
fire,  as  before,  until  their  approach,  and  received  them  with 
the  same  deluge  of  balls..  The  English,  overwhelmed  and 
routed,  again  fled  to  the  shore. 

In  this  perilous  moment,  General  Howe  remained  for  some 
time  alone  upon  the  field  of  battle :  all  the  officers  who  sur- 
rounded him  were  killed  or  wounded.  It  is  related,  that,  at 
this  critical  conjuncture,  upon  which  depended  the  issue  of 
the  day,  General  Clinton,  who,  from  Copp's  Hill,  examined 
all  the  movements,  on  seeing  the  destruction  of  his  troops, 
immediately  resolved  to  fly  to  their  succour. 

This  experienced  commander,  by  an  able  movement,  re- 
established order;  and,  seconded  by  the  officers,  who  felt  all 
the  importance  of  success,  to  English  honour  and  the  course 
of  events,  he  led  the  troops  to  a  third  attack.  It  was  directed 
against  the  redoubt,  at  three  several  points. 

The  artillery  of  the  ships  not  only  prevented  all  re-cnf u*  fc* 


248  NATIONAL  READER. 

ments  from  coming  to  the  Americans  by  the  isthmus  of 
Charlestown,  but  even  uncovered  and  swept  the  interior 
of  the  trench,  which  was  battered  in  front  at  the  same  time. 
The  ammunition  of  the  Americans  was  nearly  exhausted, 
and  they  could  have  no  hopes  of  a  recruit.  Their  fire  must, 
of  necessity,  languish. 

Meanwhile,  the  English  had  advanced  to  the  foot  of  the 
redoubt.  The  provincials,  destitute  of  bayonets,  defended 
themselves  valiantly  with  the  butt-ends  of  their  muskets. 
But,  the  redoubt  being  already  full  of  enemies,  the  American 
general  gave  the  signal  of  retreat,  and  drew  off  his  men. 

While  the  left  wing  and  centre  of  the  English  army  were 
thus  engaged,  the  light  infantry  had  impetuously  attacked 
the  palisades,  which  the  provincials  had  erected,  in  haste, 
upon  the  bank  of  the  River  Mystic.  On  each  side  the  com- 
bat was  obstinate  ;  and,  if  the  assault  was  furious,  the  re- 
sistance was  not  feeble.  / 

In  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  the  royal  troops,  the  provin- 
cials still  maintained  the  battle  in  this  part ;  and  had  no 
thoughts  of  retiring,  until  they  saw  the  redoubt  and  upper 
part  of  the  trench  in  the  power  of  the  enemy.  Their  retreat 
was  executed  with  an  order  not  to  have  been  expected  from 
new-levied  soldiers. 

This  strenuous  resistance  of  the  left  wing  of  the  Ameri- 
can army,  was,  in  effect,  the  salvation  of  the  rest ;  for,  if  it 
had  given  ground  but  a  few  instants  sooner,  the  enemy's 
light  infantry  would  have  taken  the  main  body  and  right 
wing  in  the  rear,  and  their  situation  would  have  been  hope- 
less. But  the  Americans  had  not  yet  reached  the  term 
of  their  toils  and  dangers.  The  only  way  that  remained  of 
retreat,  was  by  the  isthmus  of  Charlestown,  and  the  Eng- 
lish had  placed  there  a  ship  of  war  and  two  floating  batte- 
ries, the  balls  of  which  raked  every  part  of  it.  The  Ame- 
ricans, however,  issued  from  the  peninsula  without  any  con- 
siderable loss.  *  ^  ^  ^ 

The  possession  of  the  peninsula  of  Charlestown  was  much 
less  useful  than  prejudicial  to  the  royalists.  Their  army 
was  not  sufficiently  numerous  to  guard,  conveniently,  all  the 
posts  of  the  city  and  of  the  peninsula.  The  fatigues  of  the 
soldiers  multiplied  in  an  excessive  manner;  and,  added  to 
the  heat  of  the  season,  which  was  extreme,  they  generated 
numerous  and  severe  maladies,  which  paralyzed  the  move- 
ments of  the  army,  and  enfeebled  it  from  day  to  day.  The 
greater  pan  of  the  wounds  became  mortal,  from  the  influence 
of  the  climate,  and  the  want  of  proper  food. 


NATIONAL  READER.  249 

Thus,  besides  the  honour  of  having  conquered  the  field  of 
battle,  the  victors  gathered  no  real  fruit  from  this  action , 
and,  if  its  effects  be  considered,  upon  the  opinion  of  other 
nations,  and  even  of  their  own,  as  also  upon  the  force  of  the 
army,  it  was  even  of  serious  detriment. 

In  the  American  camp,  on  the  contrary,  provisions  of 
every  sort  were  in  abundance,  and,  the  troops  being  accus- 
tomed to  the  climate,  the  greater  part  of  the  wounded  were 
eventually  cured :  their  minds  were  animated  with  the  new 
ardour  of  vengeance,  and  the  blood  they  had  lost  exacted 
a  plen'ary  expiation.  These  dispositions  were  fortified  not 
a  little  by  the  firing  of  Charlestown,  which,  from  a  flourish- 
ing town,  of  signal  commercial  importance,  was  thus  reduc- 
ed to  a  heap  of  ashes  and  of  ruins.  The  Americans  could 
never  turn  their  eyes  in  this  direction,  without  a  thrill  of  in- 
dignation, and  without  execrating  the  European  soldiers. 

But  the  loss  they  felt  the  most  sensibly  was  that  of  Gene- 
ral Warren.  He  was  one  of  those  men,  who  are  more  at- 
tached to  liberty  than  to  existence  ;  but  not  more  ardently  the 
friend  of  freedom,  than  a  foe  to  avarice  and  ambition.  He 
was  endowed  with  a  solid  judgement,  a  happy  genius,  and 
a  brilliant  eloquence.  In  all  private  affairs,  his  opinion  was 
reputed  authority,  and  in  all  public  counsels,  a  decision. 

Friends  and  enemies,  equally  knowing  his  fidelity  and 
rectitude  in  all  things,  reposed  in  him  a  confidence  without 
limits.  Opposed  to  the  wicked,  without  hatred;  propitious 
to  the  good,  without  adulation ;  affable,  courteous,  and  hu- 
mane, towards  each ; — he  was  beloved,  with  reverence,  by 
all,  and  respected  by  envy  itself. 

Though  in  his  person  somewhat  spare,  his  figure  was  pe- 
culiarly agreeable.  He  mourned,  at  this  epoch,  the  recent 
loss  of  a  wife,  by  whom  he  was  tenderly  beloved,  and 
whom  he  cherished  with  reciprocal  affection.  In  dying  so 
gloriously  for  his  country,  on  this  memorable  day,  he  left 
several  orphans  still  in  childhood;  but  a  grateful  country 
assumed  the  care  of  their  education. 

Thus  was  lost  to  the  state,  and  to  his  family,  in  so  impor- 
tant a  crisis,  and  in  the  vigour  of  his  days,  a  man  equally 
qualified  to  excel  in  council  or  in  the  field.  As  for  our- 
selves, faithful  to  the  purpose  of  history,  which  dispenses 
praise  to  the  good  and  blame  to  the  perverse,  we  have  not 
been  willing  that  this  virtuous  and  valiant  American  should 
be  deprive  1,  among  posterity,  of  that  honourable  remem- 
brance so  rightfully  due  to  his  eminent  qualities. 


250  NATIONAL  READER. 


LESSON  CXXIX. 

Warren's  Address  to  the  American  Soldier s,  lefore  the  battle 
of  Bunker's  Hill. — ORIGINAL. 

STAND  !  the  ground's  your  own,  my  braves  ! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves  ? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves  ? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still  ? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel ! 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel  ! 

Ask  it — ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire  ? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire  ? 
Look  behind  you  !  they're  afire  ! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it ! — From  the  vale 
On  they  come  ! — and  will  ye  quail  ? — 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be  ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 

Die  we  may — and  die  we  must : — 

But,  O  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head/* 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell ! 


LESSON    CXXX. 

Extract  from  an  Address  at  the  Laying  of  the  Corner  Stone  of 
the  Bunker  Hill  Monument,  17th  j2me,lS25. — D.  WEBSTER. 

THE  great  event  in  the  history  of  the  continent,  which 
\ve  are  now  met  here  to  commemorate  ;  that  prodigy  of 

*  On  the  17th  of  June,  1S25,  half  a  century  from  the  day  of  the  battle,  the 
comer  slone  of  a  granite  monument  was  laid  on  the  ground  where  War- 
ren fell. 


NATIONAL  READER.  2ol 

modern  times,  at  once  the  wonder  and  the  blessing  of  the 
world,  is  the  American  revolution.  In  a  day  of  extraordi- 
nary prosperity  and  happiness,  of  high  national  honour,  dis- 
tinction, and  power,  we  are  brought  together,  in  this  place 
by  our  love  of  country,  by  our  admiration  of  exalted  charac- 
ter, by  our  gratitude  for  signal  services  and  patriotic  devotion. 

The  society,  whose  organ  I  am,  was  formed  for  the  pur- 
pose of  rearing  some  honourable  and  durable  monument  to 
the  memory  of  the  early  friends  of  American  independence. 
They  have  thought,  that,  for  this  object,  no  time  could  be 
more  propitious  than  the  present  prosperous  and  peaceful 
period ;  that  no  place  could  claim  preference  over  this  me- 
morable spot ;  and  that  no  day  could  be  more  auspicious  to 
the  undertaking,  than  the  anniversary  of  the  battle  which 
was  here  fought.  The  foundation  of  that  monument  we 
have  now  laid.  With  solemnities  suited  to  the  occasion, 
with  prayers  to  almighty  God  for  his  blessing,  and  in  the 
midst  of  this  cloud  of  witnesses,  we  have  begun  the  work. 
We  trust  it  will  be  prosecuted  ;  and  that,  springing  from  a 
broad  foundation,  rising  high  in  massive  solidity  and  una- 
dorned grandeur,  it  may  remain,  as  long  as  Heaven  permits 
the  works  of  man  to  last,  a  fit  emblem,  both  of  the  events  in 
memory  of  which  it  is  raised,  and  of  the  gratitude  of  those 
who  have  raised  it. 

We  know,  indeed,  that  the  record  of  illustrious  actions  is 
most  safely  deposited  in  the  universal  remembrance  of  man- 
kind. We  know,  that,  if  we  could  cause  this  structure  to 
ascend,  not  only  till  it  reached  the  skies,  but  till  it  pierced 
them,  its  broad  surfaces  could  still  contain  but  part  of  that, 
which,  in  an  age  of  knowledge,  hath  already  been  spread 
over  the  earth,  and  which  history  charges  itself  with  making 
known  to  all  future  times.  We  know,  that  no  inscription, 
on  entablatures  less  broad  than  the  earth  itself,  can  carry 
information  of  the  events  we  commemorate  whore  it  has  not 
already  gone  ;  and  that  no  structure,  which  shall  not  outlive 
the  duration  of  letters  and  knowledge  among  men,  can 
prolong  the  memorial.  But  our  object  is,  by  this  edifice, 
to  show  our  own  deep  sense  of  the  value  and  importance 
of  the  achievements  of  our  ancestors  ;  and,  by  present- 
ing this  work  of  gratitude  to  the  eye,  to  keep  alive  similar 
sentiments,  arid  to  foster  a  constant  regard  for  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  revolution.  Human  beings  are  composed  not 
of  reason  only,  but  of  imagination,  also,  and  sentiment, 
and  that  is  neither  wasted  nor  misapplied,  which  is  appro- 


252  NATIONAL  READER. 

priatcd  to  the  purpose  of  giving  right  direction  to  sentiments, 
and  opening  proper  springs  of  feeling  in  the  heart.  Let  it 
not  be  supposed,  that  our  object  is  to  perpetuate  national  hos- 
tility, or  even  to  cherish  a  mere  military  spirit.  It  is  higher, 
purer,  nobler.  We  consecrate  our  work  to  the  spirit  of  na- 
tional independence,  and  we  wish  that  the  light  of  peace  may 
rest  upon  it  forever.  We  rear  a  memorial  of  our  conviction 
of  that  unmeasured  benefit,  which  has  been  conferred  on  our 
own  land,  and  of  the  happy  influences,  which  have  been  pro- 
duced, by  the  same  events,  on  the  general  interests  of  man- 
kind. We  come,  as  Americans,  to  mark  a  spot,  which  must 
forever  be  dear  to  us  and  our  posterity.  We  wish,  that  who- 
soever, in  all  coming  time,  shall  turn  his  eye  hither,  may 
behold  that  the  place  is  not  undistinguished,  where  the  first 
great  battle  of  the  revolution  was  fought.  We  wish,  that 
this  structure  may  proclaim  the  magnitude  and  importance 
of  that  event,  to  every  class  and  every  age.  We  wish,  that 
infancy  may  learn  the  purpose  of  its  erection  from  maternal 
lips,  and  that  weary  and  withered  age  imy  behold  it,  and  be 
solaced  by  the  recollections  which  it  suggests.  We  wish, 
that  labour  may  look  up  here,  and  be  proud  in  the  midst  oi 
its  toil.  We  wish,  that,  in  those  days  of  disaster,  which,  as 
they  come  on  all  nations,  must  be  expected  to  come  on  us 
also,  desponding  patriotism  may  turn  its  eyes  hitherward, 
and  be  assured  that  the  foundations  of  our  national  power 
still  stand  strong.  We  wish,  that  this  column,  rising  to- 
wards heaven  among  the  pointed  spires  of  so  many  temples 
dedicated  to  God,  may  contribute  also  to  produce,  in  all 
minds,  a  pious  feeling  of  dependence  and  gratitude.  We 
wish,  finally,  that  the  last  object  on  the  sight  of  him  who 
leaves  his  native  shore,  and  the  first  to  gladden  his  who  re- 
visits it,  may  be  something  which  shall  remind  him  of  the 
liberty  and  the  glory  of  his  country.  Let  it  rise,  till  it  meet 
the  sun  in  his  coming ;  let  the  earliest  light  of  the  morning 
gild  it,  and  parting  day  linger  and  play  on  its  summit. 


LESSON   CXXX1. 

Address  to  the  Survivors  of  the  Bunker  Hill  Battle,  and  of 
the  Revolutionary  Army. — From  the  same. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  that  I  have  given  but  a  faint  abstract  of 
the  things  which  have  happened  since  the  day  of  the  battle 


NATIONAL  READER.  253 

of  Bunker  Hill,  we  are  but  fifty  years  removed  from  it;  and 
we  now  stand  here,  to  enjoy  all  the  blessings  of  our  own 
condition,  and  to  look  abroad  on  the  brightened  prospects 
bf  the  world,  while  we  hold  still  among  us  some  of  those, 
who  were  active  agents  in  the  scenes  of  1775,  and  who  are 
how  here,  from  every  quarter  of  New  England,  to  visit,  once 
more,  and  under  circumstances  so  affecting, — I  had  almost 
said  so  overwhelming, — this  renowned  theatre  of  their  cou- 
rage and  patriotism. 

Venerable  men !  you  have  come  down  to  us  from  a  former 
generation.  Heaven  has  bounteously  lengthened  out  your 
lives,  that  you  might  behold  this  joyous  day.  You  are  now 
where  you  stood  fifty  years  ago,  this  very  hour,  with  your 
brothers  and  your  neighbours,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  in  the 
strife  for  your  country.  Behold,  how  altered  !  The  same 
heavens  are  indeed  over  your  heads;  the  same  ocean  rolls  at 
your  feet ; — but  all  else  how  changed  !  You  hear  now  no 
roar  of  hostile  cannon,  you  see  no  mixed  volumes  of  smoke 
and  flame  rising  from  burning  Chariestown.  The  ground 
strowed  with  the  dead  and  the  clyirjg;  the  impetuous  charge; 
the  steady  and  successful  repulse  ;  the  loud  call  to  repeated 
assault ;  the  summoning  of  all  that  is  manly  to  repeated  re- 
sistance ;  a  thousand  bosoms  freely  and  fearlessly  bared  in 
an  instant  to  wrhatever  of  terror  there  may  be  in  war  and 
death; — all  these  you  have  witnessed,  but  you  witness  them 
no  more.  All  is  pence.  The  heights  of  yonder  metropolis, 
its  towers  .and  roofs,  which  you  then  saw  filled  \vith  wives, 
and  children,  and  countrymen,  in  distress  and  terror,  and 
looking  with  unutterable  emotions  for  the  issue  of  the  com- 
bat, have  presented  you  to-day  with  the  sight  of  its  whole 
happy  population,  come  out  to  welcome  and  greet  you  with 
a  universal  jubilee.  Yonder  proud  ships,  by  a  felicity  of 
position  appropriately  lying  at  the  foot  of  this  mount,  and 
seeming  fondly  to  cling  around  it,  are  not  means  of  annoy- 
ance to  you,  but  your  country's  own  means  of  distinction  and 
defence.  All  is  peace  ;  and  God  has  granted  you  this  sight 
of  your  country's  happiness,  ere  you  slumber  in  the  grave 
forever.  He  has  allowed  you  to  behold  and  to  partake  the 
reward  of  your,  patriotic  toils  ;  and  he  has  allowed  us,  your 
sons  and  countrymen,  to  meet  you  here,  and,  in  the  name 
of  the  present  generation,  in  the  name  of  your  country,  in 
the  name  of  liberty,  to  thank  you.  ^  *  *  ^  * 

But  the  scene  amidst  which  we  stand  does  not  permit  us 
U*  confine  our  thoughts  or  our  sympathies  to  those  fearless 
32 


254  NATIONAL  READER. 

spirits  who  hazarded  or  lost  their  lives  on  this  consecrated 
spot.  We  have  the  happiness  to  rejoice  here  in  the  pre- 
sence of  a  most  worthy  representation  of  the  survivors  of  the 
whole  revolutionary  array. 

Veterans !  you  are  the  remnant  of  many  a  well-fought 
field.  You  bring  with  you  marks  of  honour  from  Trenton 
and  Monmouth,  from  Yorktown,  Camden,  Bennington,  and 
Saratoga.  VETERANS  OF  HALF  A  CENTURY  !  when  in  your 
youthful  days,  you  put  every  thing  at  hazard  in  your  coun- 
try's cause,  good  as  that  cause  was,  and  sanguine  as  youth 
is.  still  your  fondest  hopes  did  not  stretch  onward  to  an  hour 
like  this  !  At  a  period  to  which  you  could  not  reasonably 
have  expected  to  arrive  ;  at  a  moment  of  national  prosperity, 
such  as  you  could  never  have  foreseen ;  you  are  now  met, 
here,  to  enjoy  the  fellowship  of  old  soldiers,  and  to  receive 
the  overflowings  of  a  universal  gratitude. 

But  your  agitated  countenances  and  your  heaving  breasts 
inform  me,  that  even  this  is  not  an  unmixed  joy.  I  per- 
ceive that  a  tumult  of  contending  feelings  rushes  upon  you. 
The  images  of  the  dead,  as  well  as  the  persons  of  the  living, 
throng  to  your  embraces.  The  scene  overwhelms  you,  and 
I  turn  from  it.  May  the  Father  of  all  mercies  smile  upon 
your  declining  years,  and  bless  them. !  And,  when  you  shall 
here  h.ive  exchanged  your  embraces  ;  when  you  shall  once 
more  have  pressed  the  hands  which  have  been  so  often  ex- 
tended to  give  succour  in  adversity,  or  grasped  in  the  exul- 
tation of  victory  ;  then  look  abroad  into  this  lovely  land, 
which  your  young  valour  defended,  and  mark  the  happiness 
with  which  it  is  filled;  yea,  look  abroad  into  the  whole 
earth,  and  see  what  a  name  you  have  contributed  to  give 
to  your  country,  and  what  a  praise  you  have  added  to  free- 
do  a),  and  then  rejoice  in  the  sympathy  and  gratitude,  which 
nearn  upon  your  last  days  from  the  improved  condition  of 
mankind. 


LESSON  CXXXII. 

Hymn  for  the  same  Occasion. — ORIGINAL. 

O,  is  not  this  a  holy  spot ! 

'Tis  the  high  place  of  Freedom's  birth ! 
God  of  our  fathers  !  is  it  not 

The  holiest  spot  of  all  the  earth  ? 


NATIONAL  READER.  255 

Quenched  is  thy  flame  on  Horeb's  side ; 

The  robber  roams  o'er  Sinai  now ; 
And  those  old  men,  thy  seers,  abide 

No  more  on  Zion's  mournful  brow. 

But  on  this  hill  thou,  Lord,  hast  dwelt, 
Since  round  its  head  the  war-cloud  curled, 

And  wrapped  our  fathers,  where  they  knelt 
In  prayer  and  battle  for  a  world. 

Here  sleeps  their  dust :  'tis  holy  ground : 

And  we,  the  children  of  the  brave, 
From  the  four  winds  are  gathered  round, 

To  lay  our  offering  on  their  grave. 

Free  as  the  winds  around  us  blow, 

Free  as  the  waves  below  us  spread, 
We  rear  a  pile,  that  long  shall  throw 

Its  shadow  on  their  sacred  bed. 

But  on  their  deeds  no  shade  shall  fall, 

While  o'er  their  couch  thy  sun  shall  flame : 

Thine  ear  was  bowed  to  hear  their  call, 
And  thy  right  hand  shall  guard  their  fame. 


LESSON   CXXXIII. 

What's  Hallowed  Ground? — CAMPBELL.* 

WHAT'S  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee? 

That's  hallowed  ground,  where,  mourned  and  missed, 
The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed: — 
But  where's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No  !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

*  From  the  New  Monthly  Magazine  for  Oct.  1825 


256  NATIONAL  READER. 


What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! — 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom ; 
Or  genii  twine,  beneath  the  deep, 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But,  strow  his  ashes  to  the  wind, 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind, 

And  is  he-dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  V — 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause ! 

Give  that,  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums,  and  rend  heaven's  reeking  space  !- 

The  colours,  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear : — 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven  ! — but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal ! 
The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above  ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love. 

Peace,  Love  !  the  cherubim,  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine — 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 

Where  they  are  not. 
The  heart  alone  cun  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 


NATIONAL  READER.  257 

What's  hallowed  ground  ?   'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth ! — 
Peace !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground. 


LESSON   CXXXIV. 

Extract  fro*i  a  Speech  of  Counsellor  PHILLIPS,  at  a 

Dinner  in  Ireland,  on  his  Health  being  given,  together 
with  that  of  Mr.  Payne,  a  young  American.,  1817. 

THE  mention  of  America,  sir,  has  never  failed  to  fill  me 
with  the  most  lively  emotions.  In  my  earliest  infancy, — that 
tender  season  when  impressions,  at  once  the  most  permanent 
and  the  most  powerful,  are  likely  to  be  excited, — the  story 
of  her  then  recent  struggle  raised  a  throb  in  every  heart  that 
loved  liberty,  and  wrung  a  reluctant  tribute  even  from  dis- 
comfited oppression.  I  saw  her  spurning  alike  the  luxuries 
that  would  ener'vate,  and  the  legions  that  would  intimidate ; 
dashing  from  her  lips  the  poisoned  cup  of  European  servi- 
tude ;  and,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  of  her  protracted 
conflict,  displaying  a  magnanimity  that  defied  misfortune, 
and  a  moderation  that  gave  new  grace  to  victory.  It  was 
the  first  vision  of  my  childhood  ;  it  will  descend  with  me  to 
the  grave.  But  if,  as  a  man,  I  venerate  the  mention  of 
America,  what  must  be  my  feelings  towards  her  as  an  Irish- 
man !  Never,  O  !  never,  while  memory  remains,  can  Ire- 
land forget  the  home  of  her  emigrant,  and  the  asylum  of 
her  exile.  No  matter  whether  their  sorrows  sprung  from  the 
errors  of  enthusiasm,  or  the  realities  of  suffering ;  from  fancy 
or  infliction  :  that  must  be  reserved  for  the  scrutiny  of  those 
whom  the  lapse  of  time  shall  acquit  of  partiality.  It  is  for 
the  men  of  other  ages  to  investigate  and  record  it ,  but, 
surely,  it  is  for  the  men  of  every  age  to  hail  the  hospitality 
that  received  the  shelterless,  and  love  the  feeling  that  be- 
friended the  unfortunate.  Search  creation  round,  where 
can  you  find  a  countiy  that  presents  so  sublime  a  view,  so 
interesting  an  anticipation  ?  What  noble  institutions  !  What 
a  comprehensive  policy  !  What  a  wise  equalization  of  every 
political  advantage  !  The  oppressed  of  all  countries,  the 
22* 


258  NATIONAL   READER. 

martyr  of  every  creed,  the  innocent  victim  of  despotic  ar* 
rogance  or  superstitious  frenzy,  may  there  find  refuge ;  his 
industry  encouraged,  his  piety  respected,  his  ambition  ani- 
mated ;  with  no  restraint  but  those  laws  which  are  the  same 
to  all,  and  no  distinction  but  that  which  his  merit  may 
originate.  Who  can  deny,  that  the  existence,  of  such  a 
country  presents  a  subject  for  human  congratulation  !  Who 
can  deny,  that  its  gigantic  advancement  offers  a  field  for  the 
most  rational  conjecture !  At  the  end  of  the  very  next  cen- 
tury, if  she  proceeds  as  she  seems  to  promise,  what  a  won- 
drous spectacle  may  she  not  exhibit !  Who  shall  say  for 
what  purpose  a  mysterious  Providence  may  not  have  design- 
ed her  !  Who  shall  say,  that,  when,  in  its  follies  or  its  crimes, 
the  old  world  may  have  interred  all  the  pride  of  its  power, 
and  all  the  pomp  of  its  civilization,  human  nature  may  not  find 
its  destined  renovation  in  the  new!  For  myself,  I  have  no 
doubt  of  it.  I  have  not  the  least  doubt,  that,  when  our  temples 
and  our  trophies  shall  have  mouldered  into  dust ;  when  the 
glories  of  our  name  shall  be  but  the  legend  of  tradition,  and 
the  light  of  our  achievements  live  only  in  song;  philosophy 
will  rise  again  in  the  sky  of  her  Franklin,  and  glory  rekin- 
dle at  the  urn  of  her  Washington.  Is  this  the  vision  of  a  ro- 
mantic fancy  ?  Is  it  even  improbable  ?  Is  it  half  so  improba- 
ble as  the  events  which,  for  the  last  twenty  years,  have 
rolled  like  successive  tides  over  the  surface  of  the  European 
world,  each  erasing  the  impression  that  preceded  it  ?  Thou- 
sands upon  thousands,  sir,  I  know  there  are,  who  will  con- 
sider this  supposition  as  wild  and  whimsical :  but  they  have 
dwelt,  with  little  reflection,  upon  the  records  of  the  past. 
They  have  but  ill  observed  the  never-ceasing  progress  of 
national  rise^  and  national  ruin.  They  form  their  judgement 
on  the  deceitful  stability  of  the  present  hour,  never  con- 
sidering the  innumerable  monarchies  and  republics,  in  for- 
mer days,  apparently  as  permanent,  whose  very  existence 
has  now  become  the  subject  of  speculation,  I  had  almost  said 
of  skepticism.  I  appeal  to  History!  Tell  me,  thou  reverend 
chronicler  of  the  grave,  can  all  the  illusions  of  ambition  re- 
alize, can  all  the  wealth  of  a  universal  commerce,  can  all 
the  achievements  of  successful  heroism,  or  all  the  esta- 
blishments of  this  world's  wisdom,  secure  to  empire  the 
permanency  of  its  possessions  ?  Alas  !  Troy  thought  so 
once ;  yet  the  land  of  Priam  lives  only  in  song !  Thebes 
thought  so  once ;  yet  her  hundred  gates  have  crumbled,  and 
Jier  very  tombs  are  but  as  the  dust  they  were  vainly  intend- 

*  $&t  *'tXG. 


NATIONAL  READER.  269 

ed  to  commemorate !  So  thought  Palmyra — where  is  she  ? 
So  thought  the  countries  of  Demosthenes  and  the  Spartan ; 
yet  Leonidas  is  trampled  by  the  timid  slave,  and  Athens  in- 
sulted by  the  servile,  mindless,  and  ener'vate  Ottoman !  In 
his  hurried  march,  Time  has  but  looked  at  their  imagined 
immortality ;  and  all  its  vanities,  from  the  palace  to  the 
.tomb,  have,  with  their  ruins,  erased  the  very  impression  of 
his  footsteps  !  The  days  of  their  glory  are  as  if  they  had 
never  been ;  and  the  island,  that  was  then  a  speck,  rude  and 
neglected  in  the  barren  ocean,  now  rivals  the  ubiquity*  of 
their  commerce,  the  glory  of  their  arms,  the  .fame  of  their 
philosophy,  the  eloquence  of  their  senate,  and  the  inspiration 
of  their  bards !  Who  shall  say,  then,  contemplating  the  past, 
that  England,  proud  and  potent  as  she  appears,  may  not,  one 
day,  be  what  Athens  is,  and  the  young  America  yet  soar  to 
be  what  Athens  was !  Who  shall  say,  that,  when  the  Euro- 
pean column  shall  have  mouldered,  and  the  night  of  barba- 
rism obscured  its  very  ruins,  that  mighty  continent  may  not 
emerge  from  the  horizon,  to  rule,  for  its  time,  sovereign  of 
the  ascendant !  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Sir,  it  matters  very  little  what  immediate  spot  may 
have  been  the  birth-placet  of  such  a  man  as  WASHINGTON 
No  people  can  claim,  no  country  can  appropriate  him. 
The  boon  of  Providence  to  the  human  race,  his  fame 
is  eternity,  and  his  residence  creation.  Though  it  was 
the  defeat  of  our  arms,  and  the  disgrace  of  our  policy,  I 
almost  bless  the  convulsion  in  which  he  had  his  origin. 
If  the  heavens  thundered,  and  the  earth  rocked,  yet,  when 
the  storm  had  passed,  how  pure  was  the  climate  that  it  clear- 
ed !  how  bright,  in  the  brow  of  the  firmament,  wr.s  the 
planet  which  it  revealed  to  us  !  In  the  production  of  Wash- 
ington, it  does  really  appear  as  if  Nature  \vas  endeavouring  to 
improve  upon  herself,  and  that  all  the  virtues  of  the  ancient 
world  were  but  so  many  studies  preparatory  to  the  patriot  of 
the  new.  Individual  instances,  no  doubt,  there  were,  splen- 
did exemplifications,  of  some  single  qualification  :  CaBsar  was 
merciful,  Scipio  was  continent,  Hannibal  was  patient ;  but 
it  was  reserved  for  Washington  to  blend  them  all  in  one, 
and,  like  the  lovely  masterpiece  of  the  Grecian  artist,  to 
exhibit,  in  one  glow  of  associated  beauty,  the  pride  of  every 
model,!  and  the  perfection  of  every  master.  As  a  general, 
he  marshalled  the  peasant  into  a  veteran,  and  supplied  by 
discipline  the  absence  of  experience ;  as  a  statesman,  he 

*/V0nku-bic'-\v£-ty.  t  bSrth-place.  t  AW  moddJe. 


200  NATIONAL  READER. 

enlarged  the  policy  of  the  cabinet  into  the  most  comprehen- 
sive system  of  general  advantage  ;  and  such  was  the  wisdom 
of  his  views,  and  the  philosophy  of  his  counsels,  that,  to  the 
soldier  and  the  statesman,  he  almost  added  the  character  of 
the  sage !  A  conqueror,  he  was  untainted  with  the  crime 
of  hlood  ;  a  revolutionist,  he  was  free  from  any  stain  of  trea- 
son ;  for  aggression  commenced  the  contest,  and  his  country 
called  him  to  the  command.  Liberty  unsheathed  his  sword, 
necessity  stained,  victory  returned  it.  If  he  had  paused 
here,  history  might  have  doubted  what  station  to  assign  him  ; 
whether  at  the  head  of  her  citizens,  or  her  soldiers,  her 
heroes,  or  her  patriots.  But  the  last  glorious  act  crowns  his 
career,  and  banishes  all  hesitation.  Who,  like  Washington, 
after  having  emancipated  a  hemisphere,  resigned  its  crown, 
and  preferred  the  retirement  of  domestic  life  to  the  adoration 
of  a  land  he  might  be  almost  said  to  have  created ! 

Happy,  proud  America!  The  lightnings  of  heaven  yield- 
ed to  your  philosophy !  The  temptations  of  earth  could  not 
seduce  your  patriotism ! 


LESSON  CXXXV. 

The  Nature  of  True  Eloquence. — D.  WEBSTER. 

WHEN  public  bodies  are  to  be  addressed  on  momentous 
occasions,  when  great  interests  are  at  stake,  and  strong 
passions  excited,  nothing  is  valuable,  in  speech,  farther  than 
it  is  connected  with  high  intellectual  and  moral  endow- 
ments. Clearness,  force,  and  earnestness,  are  the  qualities 
which  produce  conviction.  True  eloquence,  indeed,  does  not 
consist  in  speech.  It  cannot  be  brought  from  far.  La- 
bour and  learning  may  toil  for  it,  but  they  will  toil  in  vain. 
Words  and  phrases  may  be  marshalled  in  every  way,  but 
they  cannot  compass  it.  It  must  exist  in  the  man,  in  the 
subject,  and  in  the  occasion.  Affected  passion,  intense  ex- 
pression, the  pomp  of  declamation,  all  may  aspire  after  itj 
they  cannot  reach  it.  It  comes,  if  it  come  at  all,  like  the 
outbreaking  of  a  fountain  from  the  earth,  or  the  bursting 
forth  of  volcanic  fires,  with  spontaneous,  original,  native 
force.  The  graces  taught  in  the  schools,  the  costly  orna- 
ments and  studied  contrivances  of  speech,  shock  and  dis- 
gust men,  when  their  own  lives,  and  the  fate  of  their  wives, 


NATIONAL   READER.  261 

their  children,  and  their  country,  hang  on  the  decision  of 
ihe  hour.  Then,  words  have  lost  their  power,  rhetoric  is 
vain,  and  all  elaborate  oratory  contemptible.  Even  genius 
itself  then  feels  rebuked,  and  subdued,  as  in  the  presence  of 
higher  qualities.  Then,  patriotism  is  eloquent ;  then,  self- 
devotion  is  eloquent.  The  clear  conception,  out-running  the 
deductions  of  logic,  the  high  purpose,  the  firm  resolve,  the 
dauntless  spirit,  speaking  on  the  tongue,  beaming  from  the 
eye,  informing  every  feature,  and  urging  the  whole  man 
onward,  right  onward,  to  his  object — this,  this  is  eloquence  ; 
or,  rather,  it  is  something  greater  and  higher  than  all  elo- 
quence,— it  is  action,  noble,  sublime,  godlike  action. 


LESSON  CXXXVI. 

Extract  from  a  Discourse,  in  Commemoration  of  the  Lives 
and  Services  of  John  Adams  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  de- 
livered in  Faneidl  Hall,  Boston,  2d  August,  1826. — By 
DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

IN  July,  1776,  the  controversy  had  passed  the  stage  of 
argument.  An  appeal  had  been  made  to  force,  and  oppos- 
ing armies  were  in  the  field.  Congress,  then,  was  to  decide- 
whether  the  tie,  which  had  so  long  bound  us  to  the  parent 
state,  was  to  be  severed  at  once,  and  severed  forever.  All 
the  colonies  had  signified  their  resolution  to  abide  by  this 
decision,  and  the  people  looked  for  it  with  the  most  intense 
anxiety.  And  surely,  fellow-citizens,  never,  never  were 
men  called  to  a  more  important  political  deliberation.  If 
we  contemplate  it  from  the  point  where  they  then  stood,  no 
question  could  be  more  full  of  interest ;  if  we  look  at  it  now, 
and  judge  of  its  importance  by  its  effects,  it  appears  in  still 
greater  magnitude. 

Let  us,  then,  bring  before  us  the  assembly,  which  was 
about  to  decide  a  question  thus  big  with  the  fate  of  empire. 
Let  us  open  their  doors,  and  look  in  upon  their  delibera- 
tions. Let  us  survey  the  anxious  and  care-worn  coun- 
tenances, let  us  hear  the  firm-toned  voices,  of  this  band  of 
patriots. 

HANCOCK  presides  over  the  solemn  sitting ;  and  one  of 
those  not  yet  prepared  to  pronounce  for  absolute  indepen- 


262  NATIONAL  READER. 

dence,  is  on  the  floor,  and  is  urging  his  reasons  for  dissent- 
ing from  the  declaration. 

*  Let  us  pause  !  This  step,  once  taken,  cannot  be  retrac- 
ed. This  resolution,  once  passed,  will  cut  off  all  hope  of 
reconciliation.  If  success  attend  the  arms  of  England,  we 
shall  then  be  no  longer  colonies,  with  charters,  and  with  privi- 
leges ;  these  will  all  be  forfeited  by  this  act ;  and  we  shall 
be  in  the  condition  of  other  conquered  people — at  the  mercy 
of  the  conquerors.  For  ourselves,  we  may  be  ready  to  run 
the  hazard ;  but  are  we  ready  to  carry  the  country  to  that 
length  ?  Is  success  so  probable  as  to  justify  it  ?  Where  is 
the  military,  where  the  naval  power,  by  which  we  are  to 
resist  the  whole  strength  of  the  arm  of  England? — for  she 
will  exert  that  strength  to  the  utmost :  Can  we  rely  on 
the  constancy  and  perseverance  of  the  people  ?  or  will  they 
not  act,  as  the  people  of  other  countries  have  acted,  and, 
weaned  with  a  long  war,  submit,  in  the  end,  to  a  worse 
oppression  ?  While  we  stand  on  our  old  ground,  and  insist 
on  redress  of  grievances,  we  know  we  are  right,  and  are 
not  answerable  for  consequences.  Nothing,  then,  can  be 
imputable  to  us.  But,  if  we  now  change  our  object,  carry 
our  pretensions  farther,  and  set  up  for  absolute  indepen- 
dence, we  shall  lose  the  sympathy  of  mankind.  We  shall 
no  longer  be  defending  what  we  possess,  but  struggling  for 
something  which  we  never  did  possess,  and  which  we  have 
solemnly  and  uniformly  disclaimed  all  intention  of  pursuing, 
from  the  very  outset  of  the  troubles.  Abandoning  thus  our 
old  ground,  of  resistance  only  to  arbitrary  acts  of  oppression, 
the  nations  will  believe  the  whole  to  have  been  mere  pre- 
tence, and  they  will  look  on  us,  not  as  injured,  but  as  am- 
bitious subjects.  I  shudder  before  this  responsibility.  It 
will  be  on  us,  if,  relinquishing  the  ground  we  have  stood  on 
so  long,  and  stood  on  so  safely,  we  now  proclaim  indepen- 
dence, and  carry  on  the  war  for  that  object,  while  these  cities 
burn,  these  pleasant  fields  whiten  and  bleach  with  the  bones 
of  their  owners,  and  these  streams  run  blood.  It  will  be 
upon  us,  it  will  be  upon  us,  if,  failing  to  maintain  this  un- 
seasonable and  ill  judged  declaration,  a  sterner  despotism, 
maintained  by  military  power,  shall  be  established  over  our 
posterity,  when  we  ourselves,  given  up  by  an  exhausted,  a 
harassed,  a  misled  people,  shall  have  expiated  our  rashness 
arid  atoned  for  our  presumption,  on  the  scaffold,' 


NATIONAL  READER.  263 

LESSON  CXXXVI1. 

The  same,  concluded. 

IT  was  for  Mr.  Adams  to  reply  to  arguments  like  these. 
We  know  his  opinions,  and  we  know  his  character.  He 
would  commence  with  his  accustomed  directness  and  ear- 
nestness. 

*  Sink  or  swim,  live  or  die.  survive  or  perish,  I  give  my 
hand  and  my  heart  to  this  vote  !  It  is  true,  indeed,  that,  in 
the  beginning,  we  aimed  not  at  independence.  But  there's 
a  Divinity  which  shapes  our  ends.  The  injustice  of  England 
has  driven  us  to  arms ;  and,  blinded  to  her  own  interest,  for 
our  good  she  has  obstinately  persisted,  till  independence  is 
now  within  our  grasp.  We  have  but  to  reach  forth  to  it,  and 
it  is  ours.  Why,  then,  should  we  defer  the  declaration  ?  Is 
any  man  so  weak  as  now  to  hope  for  a  reconciliation  with 
England,  which  shall  leave  either  safety  to  the  country  and 
its  liberties,  or  safety  to  his  own  life,  and  his  own  honour  ? 
Are  not  you,  sir,  who  sit  in  that  chair ;  is  not  he,  our  vene- 
rable colleague  near  you ;  are  you  not  both  already  the  pro- 
scribed and  predestined  objects  of  punishment  and  of  ven- 
geance ?  Cut  off  from  all  hope  of  royal  clemency,  what  are 
you,  what  can  you  be,  while  the  power  of  England  remains, 
but  outlaws  ?  If  we  postpone  independence,  do  we  mean  to 
carry  on,  or  to  give  up,  the  war  ?  Do  we  mean  to  submit  to 
the  measures  of  parliament,  Boston  port-bill  and  all  ?  Do 
we  mean  to  submit,  and  consent  that  we  ourselves  shall  be 
ground  to  powder,  and  our  country  and  its  rights  trodden 
down  in  the  dust  ?  I  know  we  do  not  mean  to  submit.  We 
never  shall  submit.  Do  we  intend  to  violate  that  most 
solemn  obligation  ever  entered  into  by  men,  that  plighting, 
before  God,  of  our  sacred  honour  to  Washington,  when,  put- 
ting him  forth  to  incur  the  dangers  of  war,  as  well  as  the 
political  hazards  of  the  times,  we  promised  to  adhere  to  him, 
in  every  extremity,  with  our  fortunes,  and  our  lives  ?  I  know 
there  is  not  a  man  here,  who  would  not  rather  see  a  general 
conflagration  sweep  over  the  land,  or  an  earthquake  sink  it, 
than  one  jot  or  tittle  of  that  plighted  faith  fall  to  the  ground. 
For  myself,  having,  twelve  month?  ago,  in  this  place,  moved 
you,  that  George  Washington  be  appointed  commander  of 
the  forces,  raised,  or  to  be  raised,  for  defence  of  American 
liberty,  may  my  right  hand  forget  her  cunning,  and  my 


2P>4  NATIONAL  READER. 

tongue  cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,  if  I  hesitate  or  wa<* 
ver,  in  the  support  I  give  him.  The  war,  then,  must  go  on. 
We  must  fight  it  through.  And,  if  the  war  must  go  on,  why 
put  off  longer  the  declaration  of  independence  ?  That  mea* 
sure  will  strengthen  us.  It  will  give  us  character  abroad* 
The  nations  will  then  treat  with  us,  which  they  never  can 
do  while  we  acknowledge  ourselves  subjects,  in  arms 
against  our  sovereign.  Nay,  I  maintain  that  England,  her* 
self,  will  sooner  treat  for  peace  with  us  on  the  footing  of  in- 
dependence, than  consent,  by  repealing  her  acts,  to  acknow- 
ledge, that  her  whole  conduct  towards  u$  has  been  a  course 
of  injustice  and  oppression.  Her  pride  will  be  less  wound- 
ed by  submitting  to  that  course  of  things  which  now  pre- 
destinates our  independence,  than  by  yielding  the  points  in 
controversy  to  her  rebellious  subjects.  The  former  she 
would  regard  as  the  result  of  fortune;  the  latter  she  would 
feel  as  her  own  deep  disgrace.  Why  then,  wrhy  then,  sir, 
do  we  not,  as  soon  as  possible,  change  this  from  a  civil  to  a 
national  war  ?  And,  since  we  must  fight  it  through,  why  not 
put  ourselves  in  a  state  to  enjoy  all  Ihe  benefits  of  victory, 
if  we  gain  the  victory  ? 

i  If  we  fail,  it  can  be  no  worse  for  us.  But  we  shall 
not  fail.  The  cause  will  raise  up  armies ;  the  cause  will 
create  navies.  The  people,  the  people,  if  we  are  true  to 
them,  will  carry  us,  and  will  carry  themselves,  gloriously, 
through  this  struggle.  I  care  not  how  fickle  other  people 
have  been  found.  I  know  the  people  of  these  colonies  ;  and 
I  know,  that  resistance  to  British  aggressjon  is  deep  and  set- 
tled in  their  hearts,  and  cannot  be  eradicated.  Every  colo- 
ny, indeed,  has  expressed  its  willingness  to  follow,  if  we  but 
take  the  lead.  Sir.  the  declaration  will  inspire  the  people 
with  increased  courage.  Instead  of  a  long"  and  bloody  war 
for  restoration  of  privileges,  for  redress  of  grievances,  for 
chartered  immunities,  held  under  a  British  king,  set  before 
them  the  glorious  object  of  entire  independence-,  and  it  will 
breathe  into  them  anew  the  breath  of  life.  Read  this  de- 
claration at  the  head  of  the  army;  every  sword  will  be 
drawn  from  its  scabbard,  and  the  solemn  vow  uttered,  to 
maintain  it,  or  to  perish  on  the  bed  of  honour.  Publish 
it  from  the  .pulpit ,  religion  will  approve  it,  and  the  love  of 
religious  liberty  will  cling  round  it,  resolved  to  stand  with 
it,  or  fall  with  it.  Send  it  to  the  public  halls  ;  proclaim  it 
there  ;  let  them  hear  it,  who  heard  the  first  roar  of  the  ene* 
my's  cannon ;  let  them  see  it,  who  saw  their  brothers  and 


NATIONAL  READER.  265 

their  sons  fall  on  the  field  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  in  the  streets 
of  Lexington  and  Concord, — and  the  very  walls  will  cry  out 
in  its  support. 

*  Sir,  I  know  the  uncertainty  of  human  affairs  ;  but  I  see, 
I  see  clearly,  through  this  day's  business.  You  and  I,  in- 
deed, may  rue  it.  We  may  not  live  to  the  time,  when  this 
declaration  shall  be  made  good.  We  may  die ;  die,  colo- 
nists ;  die,  slaves  ;  die,  it  may  be,  ignominiously,  and  on  the 
scaffold.  Be  it  so.  Be  it  so.  If  it  be  the  pleasure  of  Hea- 
ven that  my  country  shall  require  the  poor  offering  of  my 
life,  the  victim  shall  be  ready  at  the  appointed  hour  of  sa- 
crifice, come  when  that  hour  may.  But,  while  I  do  live,  let 
me  have  a  country,  or  at  least  the  hope  of  a  country,  and 
that  a  free  country. 

'  But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured, 
that  this  declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and 
it  may  cost  blood ;  but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  com- 
pen'sate  for  both.  Through  the  thick  gloom  of  the  present, 
I  see  the  brightness  of  the  future,  as  the  sun  in  heaven. 
We  shall-  make  this  a  glorious,  an  immortal  day.  When  we 
are  in  our  graves,  our  children  will  honour  it.  They  will 
celebrate  it,  with  thanksgiving,  with  festivity,  with  bonfires, 
and  illuminations.  On  its  annual  return,  they  will  shed 
tears,  copious,  gushing  tears,  not  of  subjection  and  slavery, 
not  of  agony  and  distress,  but  of  exultation,  of  gratitude,  and 
of  joy.  Sir,  before  God,  I  believe  the  hour  is  come.  My 
judgement  approves  this  measure,  and  my  whole  heart  is  in 
it.  All  that  I  have,  and  all  that  I  am,  and  all  that  I  hope,  in 
this  life,  I  am  now  ready, here  to  stake  upon  it;  and  I  leave 
ofF,  as  I  begun,  that,  live  or  die,  survive  or  perish,  I  am  for 
the  declaration.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and,  by  the  bless- 
ing of  God,  it  shall  be  my  dying  sentiment ; — independence 
now  ;  and  INDEPENDENCE  FOREVER  !' 

And  so  that  day  shall  be  honoured,  illustrious  prophet  and 
patriot !  so  that  day  shall  be  honoured ;  and,  as  often  as  it 
returns,  thy  renown  shall  ccme  along  with  it;  and  the  glory 
of  thy  life,  like  the  day  of  thy  death,^  shall  not  fail  from  the 
remembrance  of  men. 

*  Both  of  the  distinguished  patriots,  m  commemoration  of  whose  lives  and 
services  this  Discourse  was  delivered,  died  on  the  same  day,  4th  July,  1826, — 
fifty  years  from  the  day  on  which  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  of  which 
one  was  the  author,  and  the  other  the  strenuous  and  eloquent  advocate,  was 
adopted  by  the  American  Congress. 

23 


NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  CXXXVIII. 

The  School-Boy. — THE  AMULET. 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY  had  been  rambling  all  the  day, — - 
A  careless,  thoughtless  idler, — till  the  night 
Came  on,  and  warned  him  homeward  : — then  he  left 
The  meadows,  where  the  morning  had  been  passed, 
Chasing  the  butterfly,  and  took  the  road 
To' ward  the  cottage  where  his  mother  dwelt. 
He  had  her  parting  blessing,  and  she  watched 
Once  more,  to  breathe  a  welcome  to  her  child, 
Who  sauntered  lazily — ungrateful  boy  ! — 
Till  deeper  darkness  came  o'er  sky  and  earth ; 
And  then  he  ran,  till,  almost  breathless  grown, 
He  passed  within  the  \vicket-gate,  which  led 
i!ito  the  village  church-yard  : — then  he  paused; 
And.  earnestly  looked  round  ;  for  o'er  his  head 
T  he  gloomy  cypress  waved,  and  at  his  feet 
Lay  the  last  bed  of  many  a  villager. 

But  on  again  he  pressed  with  quickened  step 
"  Whistling  aloud  to  keep  his  courage  up." 
T.ie  bat  came  flapping  by  ;  the  ancient  church 
T.irew  its  deep  shadows  o'er  the  path  he  trod, 
And  the  boy  trembled  like  the  aspen  leaf ; 
For  now  he  fancied  that  all  shapeless  forms 
Came  flitting  by  him,  each  with  bony  hand, 
A.  id  motion  as  if  threatening  ;  while  a  weight 
U  learthly.  pressed  the  satchel  and  the  slate 
H  5  strove  to  keep  within  his  grasp.     The  wind 
PLiyed  with  the  feather  that  adorned  his  cap, 
And  seemed  to  whisper  something  horrible. 
The  clouds  had  gathered  thickly  round  the  rnoon ; 
But,  now  and  then,  her  light  shone  gloriously 
Upon  the  sculptured  tombs  and  humble  graves, 
Arid,  in  a  moment,  all  was  dark  again. 

O'ercome  with  terror,  the  pale  boy  sank  down, 
And  wildly  gazed  around  him,  till  his  eye 
Fell  on  a  stone,  on  which  these  warning  worda 
Were  carved : — 

"  TIME  !  thou  art  flying  rapidly, 
But  whither  art  thou  flying  ?' 


NATIONAL  READER.  207 

"  Tc,  the  grave — which  yours  will  be — 

I  wait  not  for  the  dying. 
In  early  youth  you  laughed  at  me, 

And,  laughing,  passed  life's  morning ; 
But,  in  thine  age,  I  laugh  at  thee — 

Too  late  to  give  thee  warning." 

"DEATH  !  thy  shadowy  form  I  see, 

The  steps  of  Time  pursuing : 
Like  him  thou  comest  rapidly : 

What  deed  must  thou  be  doing  ?" 
"  Mortal !  my  message  is  for  thee  : 

Thy  chain  to  earth  is  rended : 
I  bear  thee  to  eternity : 

Prepare  !  thy  course  is  ended  !" 

Attentively  the  fainting  boy  perused 

The  warning  lines  ;  then  grew  more  terrified  ; 

For,  from  the  grave,  there  seemed  to  rise  a  voice 

Eepeating  them,  and  telling  him  of  time 

Misspent,  of  death  approaching  rapidly, 

And  of  the  dark  eternity  that  followed. 

His  fears  increased,  till  on  the  ground  he  lay 

Almost  bereft  of  feeling  and  of  sense. 

And  there  his  mother  found  him: 

From  the  damp  church-yard  sod  she  bore  her  child, 

Frightened  to  feel  his  clammy  hand',  and  hear 

The  sighs  and  sobs  that  from  his  bosom  came. 

'Twas  strange,  the  influence  which  that  fearful  hour 
Had  o'er  his  future  life ;  for,  from  that  night, 
He  was  a  thoughtful,  an  industrious  boy. 
And  still  the  memory  of  those  warning  words 
Bids  him  REFLECT^ — now  that  he  is  a  man, 
And  writes  these  feeble  lines  that  others  may. 


LESSON   CXXXIX. 

Stanzas  addressed  to  the  Greeks. — ANONYMOUS. 

ON,  on,  to  the  just  and  glorious  strife ! 

With  your  swords  your  freedom  shielding: 
Nay,  resign,  if  it  must  be  so,  even  life; 

But  die  at  least,  unyielding. 


268  NATIONAL  READER. 

On  to  the  strife  !  for  'twere  far  more  meet 
To  sink  with  the  foes  who  bay  you, 

Than  crouch,  like  dogs,  at  your  tyrants'  feet, 
And  smile  on  the  swords  that  slay  you. 

Shall  the  pagan  slaves  be  masters,  then, 
Of  the  land  which  your  fathers  gave  you  ? 

Shall  the  Infidel  lord  it  o'er  Christian  men 
When  your  own  good  swords  may  save  you  ? 

No !  let  him  feel  that  their  arms  are  strong,- — 
That  their  courage  will  fail  them  never, — 

Who  strike  to  repay  long  years  of  wrong, 
And  bury  past  shame  forever. 

Let  him  know  there  are  hearts,  however  bowed 
By  the  chains  which  he,  threw  around  them, 

That  will  rise,  like  a  spirit  from  pall  and  shroud, 
And  cry  "wo  !"  to  the  slaves  who  bound  them 

Let  him  learn  how  weak  is  a  tyrant's  might 
Against  liberty's  sword  contending; 

And  find  how  the  sons  of  Greece  can  fight, 
Their  freedom  and  land  defending. 

Then  on !  then  on  to  the  glorious  strife ! 

With  your  swords  your  country  shielding, 
And  resign,  if  it  must  be  so,  even  life  ,* 

But  die,  at  least,  unyielding. 

Strike !  for  the  sires  who  left  you  free  ! 

Strike  !  for  their  sakes  who  bore  you ! 
Strike !  for  your  homes  and  liberty, 

And  the  Heaven  you  worship  o'er  you  ! 


LESSON  CXL. 

The  Spajiish  Patriot's  Song. — ANONYMOUS. 

HARK  !  Hear  ye  the  sounds  that  the  winds,  on  their  pinions. 

Exultingly  roll  from  the  shore  to  the  sea, 
With  a  voice  that  resounds  through  her  boundless  dominions? 

*Tis  COLUMBIA  calls  on  her  sons  to  be  free ! 


NATIONAL  READER.  269 

Behold,  on  yon  summits,  where  Heaven  has  throned  hear, 
How  she  starts  from  her  proud,  inaccessible  seat ; 

With  nature's  impregnable  ramparts  around  her, 
And  the  cataract's  thunder  and  foam  at  her  feet ! 

In  the  breeze  of  her  mountains  her  loose  locks  are  shaken, 
While  the  soul-stirring  notes  of  her  warrior-song, 

From  the  rock  to  the  valley,  re-echo,  "  Awaken ! 
Awaken,  ye  hearts,  that  have  slumbered  too  long !" 

Yes,  despots !  too  long  did  your  tyranny  hold  us, 
In  a  vassalage  vile,  ere  its  weakness  was  known ; 

Till  we  learned  that  the  links  of  the  chain  that  controlled  us, 
Were  forged  by  the  fears  of  its  captives  alone. 

That  spell  is  destroyed,  and  no  longer  availing. 

Despised  as.  detested,  pause  well  ere  ye  dare 
To  cope  with  a  people,  whose  spirits  and  feeling 

Are  roused  by  remembrance,  and  steeled  by  despair. 

Go,  tame  the  wild  torrent,  or  stem  with  a  straw  [them ; 

The  proud  surges  that  sweep  o'er  the  strand  that  confined 
But  presume  not  again  to  give  freemen  a  law, 

Nor  think  with  the  chains  they  have  broken  to  bind  them. 

To  heights  by  the  beacons  of  Liberty  lightened, 

They're  a  scorn  who  come  up  her  young  eagles  to  tame  ; 

And  to  swords,  that  her  sons  for  the  battle  have  brightened, 
The  hosts  of  a  king  are"  as  flax  to  a  flame. 


LESSON  CXLI. 

The  Three  Warnings. — MRS.  THRALE. 

THE  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground. 
'Twas  therefore  said,  by  ancient  sages, 

That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that,  in  our  latter  stages, 
When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
23* 


270  NATIONAL  READER. 

This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay 
On  neighbour  Dobson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  4the  joc'und  groom. 
With  him  into  another  room  ; 
And,  looking  grave,  "  You  must,"  says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me.' 

"  With  you !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side  ! 
With  you!"  the  hapless  husband  cried; 
"  Young  as  I  am  ?  'tis  monstrous  hard ! 
Besides,  in  truth,  I'm.  not  prepared  . 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go, 
This  is  my  wedding-night,  you  know." 

What  more  he  urged  I  have  not  heard : 
His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger  : 

So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 
And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 

Yet,  calling  up  a  serious  look, — 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke, — 
"Neighbour,"  he  said,  "farewell!  no  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour  : 
And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you're  summoned  to  the  grave. 
Willing,  for  once,  I'll  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve, 
In  hopes  you'll  have  no  more  to  say, 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way, 

Well  pleased,  the  world  will  leave." 
To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted,  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wisely, — and  how  well 
It  pleased  him,  in  his  prosperous  course, 
To  smoke  his  pipe,  and  pat  his  horse,—- 

The  willing  muse  shall  tell: — 


NATIONAL  READER.  271 

He  chaffered  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  Death  as  near; 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But,  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase, — 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, — 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 

And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood, 
As  all  alone  he  sate, 
The  unwelcome  messenger  of  fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 

Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"So  soon  returned!"  old  Dobson  cries, 

"  So  soon,  d'ye  call  it  ?"  Death  replies : 
"  Surely,  my  friend,  you're  but  in  jest : 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'Tis  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 

" So  much  the  worse  !"  the  clown  rejoined: 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind  : 
Besides,  you  promised  me  three  warnings, 
Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings." 

"I  know,"  cries  Death,  "that,  at  the  best, 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  don't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable  : 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length : 
I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength." 

"Hold  !"  says  the  farmer,  "not  so  fast: 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

"  And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies : 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes ; 
Arid  sure,  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 
"  Perhaps,"  says  Dobson,  "  so  it  might ; 
But  latterly  I've  lost  my  sight." 


NATIONAL  READER. 

"This  is  a  shocking  story,  faith ; 
Yet  there's  some  comfort,  still,"  says  Death: 
"  Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse  : 
I  warrant  you  hoar  all  the  news." 

" There's  none,"  cries  he  ;  "and,  if  there  were 
I'm  grown  so  deaf  I  could  not  hear." 
"Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 

"These  are  unreasonable  yearnings: 
If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You  Ve  had  your  three  sufficient  warnings : 
So  come  along ;  no  more  we'll  part." 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart: 
And  now  old  Dobson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate so  ends  my  tale. 


LESSON  CXLIL 
The  Mariner's  Dream. — DIMOND. 

Ii7  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay, 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind 

But,  watch- worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 
And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamed  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  morn  ; 

While  memory  each  scene  gayly  covered  with  flowers,  <: 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 

Then  fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise ; — 

Now  far,  far  behind  him,  the  green  waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes.     , 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o'er  the  thatch, 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall 

All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the  latch, 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight ; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm  tear ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 


NATIONAL  READER.  273 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast, 
Joy  quickens  his  pulses,  his  hardships  seem  o'er; 

And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest — 
"  O  God !  thou  hast  blest  me  ;  I  ask  for  no  more." 

Ah !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye  ? 

Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  larums  his  ear  ? 
'Tis  the  lightning's  red  glare,  painting  hell  on  the  sky ! 

Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere ! 

He  springs  from  his  hammock — he  flies  to  the  deck — 
Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire — 

Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a  wreck — 
The  masts  fly  in  splinters — the  shrouds  are  on  fire ! 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell : 
In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wing  o'er  the  wave. 

O  sailor  boy !  wo  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  bliss. 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched  bright, 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honied  kiss  ? 

O  sailor  boy !  sailor  boy !  never  again 

Shall  home,  love>  or  kindred,  thy  wishes  repay ; 

Unblessed,  and  unhonoured,  down  deep  in  the  main 
Full  many  a  score  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

Ro  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from  the  merciless  surge ; 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds,  in  the  midnight  of  winter,  thy  dirge ! 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flower  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid ; 

Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow ; 
Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 

And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages,  shall  circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll ; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  for  ever  and  aye  : — 
O  sailor  bfly !  sailor  boy  !  peace  to  thy  soul  * 


274  NATIONAL  READER. 

LESSON  CXLIII. 

Absalom. — WILLIS  . 

THE  waters  slept.   '  Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 
On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 
Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 
Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 
The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream :  the  willow  leaves^ 
With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 
Forgot  the  lifting  winds ;  and  the  long  stems, 
Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 
Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 
And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 
How  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world ! 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  \vas  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gathered  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank 
Arid  spoke  their  kindly  words ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy^ 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer ! 
He  prayed  for  Israel ;  and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  prayed  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield ;  and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh !  for  Absalom — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away, 
In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 
The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured. 
In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 
*  Pron.  curt-a  &y. 


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